


When the Stakes are Higher

by keeptogethernow



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Brother Feels, Brotherly Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harm to Children, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I created a serial killer, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, I'm not a nice person, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, i created a monster, more accurately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptogethernow/pseuds/keeptogethernow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new serial killer in Gotham, and he's managing to evade even Batman's attempts to catch him. The psychopath's inclinations have Bruce on edge, but Jason's not as worried...until it becomes personal. But when even the world's greatest detective is at a loss, will their efforts be enough to prevent another tragedy in the Wayne family?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Roll the dice...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've totally discarded a lot of canon. The story's set mostly in the New 52 Universe, before Damian died. I did kind of borrow a little bit of the relationships from Batman: Eternal, but just barely. I hope it's not too confusing or anything!

Jason watches the scene before him with fascination—there’s something incredibly entertaining and…slightly disturbing about Batman being backed down by a couple of kids who weren’t old enough to drive or tall enough to come up to his shoulder. He grins maliciously, enjoying the moment, listening as his father attempts to reason with his younger brothers. Dick has settled himself against the computer desk, observing with an equally amused look.

The argument has been ongoing for the past hour now, a result of Bruce’s attempts to use the “I am the parent” and “do as I say” methods of parenting. If he’d tried approaching both boys separately, instead of giving them a chance to collaborate, he might have avoided this entire endeavor. It was clear he sincerely regretted his decisions thus far.

“For the last time,” he says, too exasperated to use his usual “Batman voice”. “You two are _not_ going to be a part of this investigation. End of discussion!”

“But, Bruce!” Tim protests, managing to sound ridiculously persuasive. “You need us on this case! I mean, you and Jason can’t patrol the city _and_ investigate these missing people cases alone— _shut up,_ Dick, you’re not even staying for patrol tonight—and Damian and I are _perfectly capable_ of looking into something that routine!”

Dick sulks slightly, more because he didn’t get to voice a protest than anything. Bruce looks like he’s regretting the decision to not just stop at two kids. Jason grins even wider, because there’s nothing quite as amusing as watching someone else try to argue with Tim.

“Besides, our size would be an advantage in this instance,” Damian interjects firmly, “And you always say to use any advantage we possess, Father. To demand our inaction would be a grave disregard to that logic.”

“And I said that it _doesn’t matter.”_ Bruce snaps, looking over at both of his older children, as though hoping for help, “So, therefore, you two are staying here. Jason and I are perfectly capable of managing multiple cases at the same time, thank you, Tim. And, while Dick is going on the assignment for the League, he can still come back if we need the assistance.”

Jason snickers, waiting for the imminent retorts. He shoots Dick a grin, and the older man nods in agreement. They’re both deriving serious joy from the scene.

“Dick will be a _minimum_ of three hours away. We’re _right here._ So…” Tim trails off, eyebrow raised.

Damian chimes in with “Be reasonable, Father.”

“For the last time, _no!”_ Bruce practically shouts, patience fully spent. “You are both staying here. If either of you so much as _think_ of leaving this cave without my blessing, then I _will_ lock you _both_ in one of the containment chambers! _Do you understand?”_

Both boys jump slightly at the tone, and, while most people would think they were otherwise unaffected, Jason can clearly see from here that they’re both a bit shaken by it. It’s evident in the way that Damian bristles, puffing out his tiny chest in an attempt to appear larger, and the way that Tim’s eyes change, the fire dying in them, fading until they look flat and dead. He can’t tell if Bruce notices, but he can see the slight frown on Dick’s face that says that he’s seen it too.

“I said,” Bruce reiterates, tone lower, but still intense. “Do. You. Understand?”

Tim presses his lips into a tight line, but nods reluctantly. Damian glares hard, trying to stare the man down. After a moment though, he growls out “Yes, sir.” in a tone far too dark for a child his age.

Bruce nods, grunts in approval, and turns to walk away towards the computer. Dick hops off the desk and sidles to the side, head cocked slightly as he observes. Both boys shoot glares at Bruce’s back, but finally they seem to admit defeat and head back upstairs, their posture stiff with rage.

As soon as they’re upstairs and out of earshot, Dick turns to Jason, eyebrows raised. Jason shrugs, so he turns back to stare at their father. After a second, he clears his throat.

“A little harsh, don’t you think?” he says tentatively. “I mean, they just wanna help.”

“Not with this case.” The man says firmly, eyes fixed on the screen.

Jason sighs, because he knows that Dick’s going to keep pushing it, and he expects Jason to help him.

“Since I’m on the case too,” he ventures, glaring over at Dick, “would you mind telling me why?”

Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping as he realizes that he’s not going to escape the discussion. He turns to looks at both of them, eyes tired, face grim. He inhales deeply, clearly trying to think of some way to word the topic where it’ll finish faster.

“Because,” he says, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “they don’t need to be involved in this. Look, Jason. There’s a lot going on here. Ten kids have been reported missing over the past two months, and in each case, their bodies have turned up…in the bed of the next missing child.”

“So it’s a serial killer.” Jason says, trying to figure out the exact reason for Bruce’s reluctance. “They’ve faced the Joker before, B. I don’t really think…”

“All the bodies were heavily mutilated.” Bruce continues, frowning at the memory. “And then there’s the victimology.”  
“Let me guess,” Dick says irately, “Dark haired, blue-eyed boys?”

“Not entirely,” Bruce says, smiling slightly in spite of himself. “But yes, all the victims were boys between the ages of nine and eighteen. We still have no idea how or why the victims were chosen, and we’ve got no idea of how he’s getting in and out of the houses with a body _or_ a living child.”

“I don’t supposed you _told_ them that?” Jason says with frustration. “I mean, did you even bother to just talk to them and explain any of that?”

Bruce snorts softly. “Have you met those two? That wouldn’t have helped. Hell, in Damian’s case, it’d probably just galvanize him into some stupid, reckless plan for revenge. You know it would.”

Dick laughs softly. “Yeah, it probably would. But you still should have told them. I mean, you’re just trying to protect them here. So maybe you should have just said _that.”_

Jason nods in agreement. “He’s right. You really need to try communicating with them more often. I mean, maybe they wouldn’t have argued as much.”

“No. They’d have been even worse.” Bruce says with annoyance. “I mean, I’d get to listen to Tim complain about not needing my protection _and_ Damian arguing that he’s not a child. Look, will you two back me up here? We all know that they’ll try to go behind my back, and odds are they’ll go to one of you.”

They both agree, although Jason’s already thinking about the other possibility—they could just work together. There’s absolutely nothing he’s seen that is as terrifying as Tim and Damian working together willingly. Although, now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure if Bruce has ever been a witness to this phenomena. He doesn’t say anything though, because he doubts that Bruce would even consider the possibility—it _is_ hard to believe if you haven’t seen it.

Bruce leaves on patrol a few minutes later, and the two remaining vigilantes exchanges looks.

“So…” Dick says thoughtfully. “Whaddya think?”

“They’ll be going around him somehow. But probably not until he’s started to believe that they’re listening.” Jason states firmly. “…Three days, maybe?”

Dick nods. “Yeah. Sounds about right. I doubt they’ll go to us though.”

“Probably not.”

“Do we tell B, or just wait until it happens and do damage control?”

“What’s with this ‘we’ stuff?” Jason snorts in derision. “ _You’ll_ be on the other side of the world. _I’m_ the one who’s gonna have to deal with those two and B.”

“Point.” Dick sighs. “Maybe they’ll behave? I mean, he _was_ really pissed. And he definitely freaked them out a little there.”

“ _Sure._ I mean, of course they’ll sit out and be patient because Bruce yelled at them. When have _Tim_ and _Damian ever_ disobeyed a direct command?”

Dick sighs again and shakes his head, but doesn’t try to argue. Jason thinks about the situation a little longer, then gives up. He shakes his head and heads towards his bike.

“I’ll try to do damage control.” Jason shouts over his shoulder. “If there’s any chance of it, anyway.”

They don’t bring it up again. Dick leaves for his mission, and Bruce and Jason patrol Gotham and try to catch the killer. Jason sees quickly why Bruce would want the younger boys to stay out of it—each scene is equally brutal and horrifying. And the pace is intense, with another dead child turning up each week, while a second goes missing. Then the pattern repeats.

There’s not enough time to really be suspicious of the fact that Tim and Damian don’t argue or complain with Bruce's edict at all during the month that follows. Jason just crosses his fingers and hopes that they’re being compliant because of how upset Bruce had been, and not because they’re plotting something. They’ve even gone to school all month with little complaint. Alfred _has_ been incredibly vigilant, watching the boys like a hawk when they’re at home, and shuttling them to and from school each day without fail.

It’s been forty days, Jason thinks with exhaustion, falling face first onto the couch in the Manor. He groans, body aching all over—they’ve been out all night and a good part of the day each and every day since the altercation forty days ago. He relaxes against the couch, letting himself drift off, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep.

Jason jerks awake about thirty minutes later, because someone is poking him in the head. He growls, flinging a hand up in an attempt to shoo whoever it is away. He stops when he hears a very soft, disapproving cough.

“Why, Alfred?” he whines, trying to not open his eyes. “I’m not making a mess!”

He can _hear_ Alfred roll his eyes in disapproval.

“Well, Master Jason,” the man sniffs, “it _could_ be because you are sleeping on a couch, and not in a more…appropriate area.”

“Or?”

 _“Or,_ it could be because I needed your opinion on a matter of some importance.”

Jason sighs and sits up, looking at the elderly man blearily.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well,” the man says, raising an eyebrow at Jason’s messy appearance. “It would seem that I find myself slightly…overbooked today. This morning, I had forgotten that I had made a commitment this afternoon to Mr. Fox.”

“And?”

“I will be unavailable at the time when school is released.”

“Oh. So who’s picking up the kids then?”

“That’s the reason I chose to disturb your much-needed slumber. I was wondering, if, in your opinion,” Alfred pauses, considers, then continues. “If, in your opinion, it would be prudent to arrange for alternative transportation, or if it was not entirely ill-advised for me to allow the young masters to walk to the main Wayne Enterprises building and remain there until I finish with my engagement?”

Jason frowns, thinking about it.

“Well…” he drawls out, considering the problem. “Have they behaved suspiciously to you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all, which, in a way, is rather odd in itself. However, I don’t get the feeling that they plan on attempting any of their more underhanded methods at this time.”

“Okay. If you don’t think that they’re plotting, then I think it’d be okay. I mean, if it was me, I’d be happier with that, actually. It’d mean that you trusted me not to do anything stupid. So…”

Alfred nods in agreement. “Quite. And that was much my thought process as well. Very well then, I shall have to inform both Young Master Timothy _and_ Master Wayne of the change in plans.”

The man turns to leave the room.

“Oh, and Master Jason?” he says, turning back for a second. “Perhaps you could reconsider relocating yourself to a more appropriate place for sleep? I’ll have to leave Master Damian’s dog in the house unsupervised while I’m out, and he has been known to use this room for his more…rambunctious actions.”

Jason pictures the huge, clumsy Great Dane in his mind, then nods.

“Thanks, Alfred. I think I will.”


	2. You Lose Your Mice...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian has a strange encounter, Jason's love of fudge is exploited, and Bruce is amused by his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some fun writing this chapter, but I'm not entirely sure how well I did. There were a lot of pov switches, and I'm worried that it might be confusing. Also, the little inner-dialogue, creeper thing. So PLEASE let me know if you're confused, because I can totally fix this!

Tim was pretty sure that Alfred is trying to bribe them. Why else, after all, would he have called while Tim was on lunch break and tell him that he and Damian could walk to W.E. instead of riding home? Considering they haven’t been allowed out in public alone for over a month, there’s really no other explanation for it.

He has no classes near Damian, so he figures the Demon Brat can wait until school lets out to hear the news. Maybe it’ll make him less miserable to be around. But he really doesn’t expect it to—Damian is _rarely_ good company, and almost never to him. Hell, being insulted only a few times and not having _real_ bodily harm threatened counts as a damn good time as far as their relationship goes.

Damian is standing outside the school, scowling, by the time Tim makes his way outside. The younger boy huffs in annoyance, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits. He’s not going to help. Timothy Drake is _not_ his friend, is _barely_ an ally, and he’s not going to go out of his way to make sure the older boy sees him. After a few seconds, Tim finally spots him and hurries over, weaving between bodies until he’s directly next to Damian.

“Finally.” Damian says, disgust practically dripping in his voice. “Now that you’re finally finished wasting our time, can we _leave_ this retched place?”

Tim bites his tongue, and decides instead to let Damian do a little time wasting of his own by looking for Alfred and the car. He follows the younger boy, fighting to keep his face straight. They circle the parking lot twice, Damian huffing and clicking his tongue in growing annoyance, face growing more and more agitated.

Finally, after a good ten minutes of walking in circles, Damian turns to look at Tim, anger and, Tim’s surprised to note, a little concern in his eyes.

“Where’s Pennyworth?”

“Well, now that you’re done wasting our time,” Tim mimics the earlier tone used, “I am pleased to inform you that he called and said we could walk to W.E.”

He enjoys the expressions that flash across the boy’s face: anger at the mockery, relief that there’s nothing wrong with Alfred, joy at the idea of being allowed to _do something_ without an adult, before he settles on disinterest.

“Well, let us depart then.” The boy commands, turning to walk.

Tim groans internally, grabs the kid’s arm, and marches them in a different direction.

“W.E. is _this_ way.” He says, dropping Damian’s arm quickly, before the boy retaliates. “Alfred said that I had to keep you with me ‘for the duration of the journey’, so just shut up and be glad that I don’t hold your hand.”

Damian scowls, but doesn’t protest, and the two proceed down the street, weaving through the bustle of downtown Gotham. About half way to the gargantuan office building, Tim veers them off the straight path, and down a side street. Damian notices this immediately.

“ _tt,_ Drake, if Pennyworth _specifically_ instructed you to proceed directly to W.E., _why_ are we going this way?”

“Because,” Tim sighs tiredly, “I wanted to stop…here.”

They’re standing in front of a candy store, innocuously bearing the name “Sweets”. Damian looks incredibly perplexed and a little put out. Tim rolls his eyes, because he _knows_ the boy has seen a candy store before.

“ _Why?”_ Damian asks incredulously. “This honestly cannot be worth risking the wrath of Father… _or_ Pennyworth!”

“Relax, Brat.” Tim says, walking towards the entrance. “I’ll just be a second. They’ll never know, as long as _you_ don’t tell them.”

He goes inside, leaving Damian standing on the sidewalk. The boy clicks his tongue in annoyance, and then sits down on the curb. There are pigeons playing in a puddle, and he watches them raptly, enjoying the simple beauty of the scene. He wishes suddenly that he had his sketch pad, so that he could capture this. He’d use watercolors to ad sense of softness to it, he thinks. Then he feels the prickling on his neck that comes from being watched.

He looks up, suddenly intensely aware of how vulnerable he is here—exposed on a sidewalk, alone, back towards the crowd. Damian scans the people passing now, trying to figure out who is watching him. Finally, he sees a man staring intently from a nearby café table.

The man looks down quickly when they make eye contact. Damian crows with triumph in his mind, pleased at being right and finding the threat. He strides over, wanting to know _why_ this man was staring.

“Why were you watching me?” he demands, arms crossed over his chest.

The man sputters for a second, before holding up a notepad. “I-I was sketching…”

Damian takes the book and inspects the page. The man has talent, he admits grudgingly. The artist has captured the scene Damian had been observing minutes ago, only he’s sketched Damian in as well. There’s an almost wistful expression on the sketched child’s face, and Damian is impressed by the amount of skill that has gone into creating such emotions.

“It’s…very good.” He says, handing the pad back. “I wanted to use watercolors to add life to it.”

The man nods enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s exactly what I was thinking. You draw?”

“Occasionally.”

“Hmm. Ever do self-portraits? You’ve got very beautiful eyes.”

Damian feels slightly perturbed by the statement. It’s harmless, he knows, and yet… He takes a small step back, suddenly noticing how close the man is. The man seems to notice his discomfort, because he starts to try to reassure him.

“Oh, no! _No._ I didn’t mean it like _that._ I just meant that you, well, you’ve got very…distinctive eyes. There’s a lot of emotion there, and it’s _exactly_ the sort of thing I try to capture in my artwork.”

Damian nods slowly, staring warily. He wants nothing more than to end this conversation and put as much distance as he can between himself and the artist.

“I’d love to draw you sometime,” the man continues, obviously mistaking the nod for forgiveness. “You could come by my studio—“

“ _Excuse me._ ”

A sudden hand on Damian’s shoulder makes him jump, but he recognizes the voice before he can react—it’s Tim.

“Um, who are you?” Tim says, cocking his head at the man. “And why are you talking to my little brother?”

“I’m an artist.” The man says, gesturing to his pad of paper. “Scott Lundgrin. Your brother and I were just discussing art.”

He offers a hand, which Tim doesn’t take. The teen looks suspiciously at him, and his grip on Damian’s shoulder tightens ever so slightly. He gently tugs Damian back, away from the strange man.

“Right…” he drawls out, still staring. “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt. Our dad’s waiting.”

He shoves Damian lightly, moving them towards the crowd.

“Wait!” The man says, protesting, “I’d love for him to model for me some time, let me just give you—“

“Some other time!” Tim shouts back, speeding up their pace.

The two maneuver into the center of the foot traffic, half jogging away from the café. Tim still doesn’t let go of Damian’s shoulder, and the two go almost a full city block before he does. He guides Damian into a stairwell, out of the way of traffic.

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, looking at the younger boy with concern. “Who was that guy?”

Damian nods in response, suddenly aware that he’s shaking ever so slightly. “I-I don’t know.”

Tim frowns. “Dude, you’re shaking. You’re _not_ okay.” He pauses, then adds, a little awkwardly, “He didn’t, like, _do_ anything to you, right?”

Damian shakes his head no, still focusing on stilling his body. He almost squawks in surprise when Tim suddenly pulls him into a hug. He stiffens, then relaxes a little, because it makes the shaking less, _not_ because he’s enjoying the physical contact. Tim lets him go after a second, still looking a little awkward.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, fumbling through his coat pockets. He pulls out a bag and offers it towards Damian. “Fudge?”

Damian gapes for a second, trying to discern what Tim’s talking about. Then he reaches into the bag and takes out a piece of chocolate fudge. He glances suspiciously at Tim.

“I didn’t poison it or anything.” Tim says flaccidly. “It’s safe.”

He takes a bite, chewing slowly, then swallowing.

“It’s good!” He says, eyes wide with surprise. “Almost as good as Pennyworth’s.”

“Yeah. That’s why I got it. Figured it’d work just as well as Alfred’s.”

Tim stuffs the bag back into his pocket, then tugs Damian’s arm gently.

“C’mon. If we take much longer, then Alfred _will_ notice that we’re gone.”

 _He watches the boys walk off, skin itching with the desire to stop them. He just wants to look at the little one again, to memorize those eyes of his. The boy has beautiful eyes, he thinks with longing. He could look at them forever,_ wants _to look at them forever._

_He thinks about following them, just to look, not to touch. Not yet. He really liked the way they complemented each other too, he thinks, barely stopping himself from getting up and following. The way they seem to know exactly how the other will move, like a pair of dancers who’ve rehearsed for weeks. They look beautiful together, he thinks with longing, two shades of dark hair, both strong—lean, that’s the word—but delicate too._

_Too delicate for this world, he worries suddenly. Too small, too young. Their soft skin won’t protect them from the pain of this life._

_He can see it in their eyes too—the way the world is already breaking them down. The larger one has the saddest eyes he’s ever seen. A flood of sympathy rushes over him—children shouldn’t have eyes like that._

_Both of them are so guarded, he thinks. So hurt. He wants to run after, catch them, take them to his safe place, where he can comfort them, love them. He wants to help them. That’s all._

The two make it to W.E. just before Alfred finishes his meeting. He arrives in the lobby to find two tired-looking boys slouched out on separate chairs. Damian is reading, barely breathing as he reads with rapt attention. Tim had his hood over his face, and looks asleep—not pretending, Alfred can tell the difference—but actually asleep. The butler is almost reluctant to wake him—despite being grounded, the boy has still managed to get almost no sleep.

After a second, he clears his throat. Damian immediately looks up, blinking owlishly. It is, Alfred thinks nostalgically, an expression almost identical to the one Master Jason used to make when his reading was interrupted, years ago, before clowns and crowbars and green liquid had stolen that child away.

“Are we leaving?” Damian asks imperiously.

Alfred allows himself a small smile, knowing that it’s just a ruse to distract him from the fact that the boy was startled.

“Yes. Master Timothy? Are you awake?”

Tim jerks slightly, then slides into a more or less upright position. He pulls his hood off, looking at Alfred blankly. Alfred sighs, because he knows that the boy will not wake up fully without caffeine, and he has no desire to encourage that addiction.

“We are leaving.” He says gently.

The teen nods, moving sluggishly to stand. Damian snorts at the behavior, but doesn’t comment. He just picks up his bag and book, and starts to read some more as they walk down the hall and into the garage.

The drive home is uneventful, and Tim seems to have reached some reasonable level of wakefulness by the time they arrive home. Jason is sitting on the front stoop when they arrive, looking thoroughly annoyed.

“I’m locked out.” He says, standing up and moving out of Alfred’s way. “And you said no more using the windows. So…”

“How long were you waiting?” Tim asks in amusement.

“Hour and a half.”

“Perhaps you’ll endeavor to not lose your key in the future.” Alfred says mildly, unlocking the door and letting them all in.

The boys crowd through the door, then immediately allow Damian in front when the giant, enthusiastic dog charges forward to greet them. He plows the child down, slobbering all over the boy’s face lovingly. Tim and Jason both make disgusted noises, skirting around the scene to the relative safety of the nearest room.

As soon as they’re away from the ruckus and sure that Alfred isn’t near enough to hear, Tim pulls the bag out of his pocket.

“Hey, Jason?” he says, popping a piece into his mouth.

Jason turns, and his eyes bug out when he sees the bag of candy.

“ _Is that fudge?”_ he asks, staring intensely at the candy in Tim’s hand.

“Yup. Your favorite—well, besides Alfred’s.”

“What do you want?” Jason is instantly suspicious—Tim doesn’t make unnecessary comments.

“You let me go on patrol tonight.”

“Not happening.”

“How ‘bout if I stay with you the whole time?”

“No.” Jason glares. “You already know what’s going on—don’t lie, you have totally been snooping. There is no way I’m going against Bruce on this one.”

“So…I’m old enough to live alone, but not old enough to handle a serial killer?”

“First, nobody agrees that you’re old enough to live alone, we just haven’t done anything about it. And second, you’re not old enough to handle a _child killer._ Big difference, Einstein.”

Tim glares sullenly. “It’s not fair. And besides, I’ve seen—“

“You have _not_ seen anything worse.” Jason snaps, scenes from the latest abduction burning in his mind. “Trust me, Tim. You don’t _want_ to see this. Hell, _I_ don’t want to see this.”

He can see the mulish expression on his brother’s face, and knows he’ll have to paint a picture if he wants to convince Tim.

“The latest victim is an eleven-year-old boy, Lucas Devonport. He was abducted from his bedroom in the middle of the night five days ago. His parents say that he was wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas with cartoon characters on the bottoms. He slept with a stuff dog, and he likes bedding that had Batman symbols on it. There was a body in the bed, to replace his. Cody Simmons, age sixteen. He’d been missing for a week. You couldn’t…” he swallows a little at the memory.

“You couldn’t tell that that was who it was. The, um, he’d been skinned. His face was gone, a lot of the rest was too. His hair was still there, though. The parents, they…they came in to check on Lucas, and all they saw was the hair, until they touched it…”

He trails off, checking his brother’s face. Tim’s expression is blank, and Jason knows that he’s won, although it’s a very hollow one.

“The point is,” he says gently, “Bruce doesn’t want you _or_ Damian to have to see stuff like that. Not because he doesn’t think you can’t hack it, or because you’re too young. It’s because _nobody_ should have to see that. Okay? And he’s right. So no matter what kind of bride you’ve got, I’m _not_ going to let you out there, because that’s all we’re focusing on, really.”

Tim nods, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Okay…Um, you can still have the, um, fudge.”

Jason smiles, choking back some tears, and takes a piece of the candy. “Thanks. So…you aren’t going to go and sneak out anyway, are you?”

“No.”

Jason nods, then grins for real.

“Damn. This is _good_ fudge.”

They end up eating all of the candy. This turns out to be a bad thing, because Alfred calls them to dinner right after they finish. He gives them a look that says that he knows exactly what they did, but doesn’t say anything. Though he won’t admit as much, he is actually not at all upset by the transgression—Master Timothy ate half the bag, which is honestly more than Alfred can normally get him to eat on a regular basis. Of course, he _does_ wish they could have chosen a more nutritious choice, but it’s not worth worrying over.

The night passes uneventfully—Jason and Tim decide to watch a movie, and Damian joins them, still reading his book. Bruce finds them all settled on the couch, both of the younger boys asleep, using Jason as a pillow. Jason grins at him, shrugging slightly.

“I talked your kid out of doing something dumb. You should thank me.”

Bruce groans softly, but with no real anger behind it.

“Which one?” He asks, smiling fondly as he looks at his sleeping children, who look much younger this way.

“I’ll give you two guesses,” Jason snorts, shifting a little so Bruce can get Tim off of him. “He tried to bribe me with fudge, you know. Somehow, he got ahold of my favorite candy, and offered me a whole bag to in exchange for being allowed out tonight. Are we _absolutely,_ one hundred percent _sure_ that he’s not biologically yours?”

Bruce chuckles, carefully hoisting the teen up and moving towards the stairs.

“And you talked him out of it?” He says, looking back at Jason, who’s following with Damian cradled carefully against him.

“Yeah. _You’re welcome.”_

“Thank you, Jason.” Bruce says, rolling his eyes.

They get the boys settled into bed without incident, then head to the cave. Jason feels a certain sense of weight and doom fall over him as he walks down the stairs into the Batcave. He sighs, long and loud.

“We gotta catch this guy, B.” he says, putting his uniform on slowly, almost reluctant. “This needs to end.”

Bruce grunts in agreement, already in the Batman persona. Jason rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. There’s really nothing more to say about it anyway.

It’s almost three in the morning, and patrol is wrapping up. They’ve made no progress in catching the monster responsible for the dead children, although they’ve found out that the media has dubbed him “The Cradle Robber”, which, while apt, is a little too on-the-nose for Jason’s tastes.

He and Batman meet up at one of their regular spots—a tall building with grimacing gargoyles that towers above the surrounding buildings. They compare notes—it was a quiet night, and no real break-through was made. Jason is about to suggest just calling it a night when the comm buzzes, and Alfred’s voice comes on, alarmed and not at all like his usual calm demeanor.

“Master Bruce,” he says, completely disregarding the rule about codenames. “You need to get back _now._ There’s a situation—“

“What is it?” Bruce snaps, totally abandoning his usual gruff tone as that of a worried father breaks through. “What happened?”

“It’s Master Timothy, sir. He’s…he’s not in his room, and I can’t seem to locate him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I'm supposed to be writing porn and just can't get past the awful storyline. Like, I'm not against porn at all, but for god's sake, I need a story to at least make sense! The number of inaccuracies, cliches, and ridiculous situations is just...AGH! This is why you should be careful what you wish for, kids. You want to write smutty fanfic for a living, and you end up writing terrible porn stories instead. AND you get to explain how you're making money to family...and figure out how to put the experience on a resume.  
> But I digress. So, things are starting to heat up a little, I've almost figured out how many chapters this will have, and Jason gets to eat fudge! I kinda creeped myself out a bit writing the weird artist and the internal dialogue thing. So I'm probably never sleeping again...


	3. But Somebody Got Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is beginning to think he might be a horrible parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School starts next week, so we'll see how often I can update. I'm hoping to have a new chapter up every week, but who knows if that will happen. *fingers crossed* Anyway, that's why this is a shorter one. I'm in a time crunch right now, and literally wrote this in between work assignments.

The ride back to the cave is tense and silent. Alfred informs them of the details of the situation—he’d found Tim missing when he went upstairs to check on a noise. The noise had been an open window in the boy’s room, and further inspection revealed that, not only was Tim _not_ in his bed, the bedding had gotten cold, indicating that he’d not been in it for several minutes.

“He could have just snuck out.” Jason suggests, choosing to ignore the fact that the bedroom is on the third floor—Tim could make that climb easily. “The system didn’t go off?”

“It would appear that he disabled the sensors in his room…again.” Alfred responds quickly. “And I doubt he just climbed out—of all the ways out of the house, that would be the least convenient. There are sensors all along the property, and he’d have a hard time navigating that in the dark.”

“And we’re certain he’s not in the house?” Bruce asks in a tense tone.

“Well, he’s not in any of the areas we have sensors or cameras in. Granted, there are many areas that are not covered, but I’m currently searching them. Help would make it go faster though.”

“We’ll be there in ten.” Bruce signs off curtly.

Jason focuses on breathing in and out slowly, fighting the rising panic in the pit of his stomach.

“I-it could be something else, B.” he suggests, hoping to reassure himself more than Bruce. “I mean, um, there’s no body, right? So…”

Bruce just grunts and guns the engine again. Jason doesn’t say anything else. He’s busy beating himself up—he’d just assumed that Tim had given up, that he’d convinced the boy not to do anything stupid. I should have double checked, he berates himself, I should have known better.

They take the stairs two at a time, not even bothering to change out of their suits. Alfred meets them in the kitchen, worry evident on his face.

“I’ve finished the east wing,” the butler says. “He’s not there. Master Jason, if you’d check the grounds, Master Bruce and I will take the rest of the house.”

Jason nods and takes off, leaving the two older men behind. As soon as he’s out of ear shot, Bruce turns to Alfred, grim expression on his face.

“Damian’s still here?” he verifies, heading down the hall.

“Yes, I checked as soon as I discovered the empty bed. He’s fast asleep, for once.”

“Good. I’ll take the left side, you take the right.”

They part ways quickly. Bruce heads down the hall, trying hard to clamp down on the rising fear he’s feeling. It’s funny, he contemplates, checking the first room thoroughly, it’s funny how easily the doubt and fear can be quelled…unless it comes to his children.

The room is empty, as are the next three he checks. Tim probably snuck out, he thinks with a sinking feeling. Of course it would be Tim—Damian is for more likely to just blatantly disobey him, while Tim _would_ go behind his back like this, getting away with it until it was too late to stop him.

I’m going to chain him to Alfred, Bruce thinks angrily. The next room is empty, and he can’t stop himself from adding “ _If he’s alright”_ to the thought. He frowns, angry with himself now for not being rational, for getting distracted by the emotions, for not being a better parent—one who would have _known_ something like this would happen.

A creaking sound from up ahead shakes him out of his self-loathing. He tenses, pulling a batarang out of his belt, moving silently down the hall. There’s another sound, and he tenses up, knowing that there is indeed someone there. He wishes suddenly that he hadn’t left the cowl in the cave—the night-vision would be useful now.

One of the shadows ahead of him moves, and Bruce moves into a fighting stance, ready to throw the projectile.

“Show yourself,” he growls in his Batman voice. “ _Now.”_

“B-bruce?”

It’s Tim’s voice, quiet, with a slight quiver to it, as though he’s almost in tears. Bruce drops his stance immediately, stowing the batarang and moving forward until he can make out his son’s face.

“Tim? Are you alright?” he asks, relief flooding through him.

The boy nods, eyes huge and wide, like a startled animal. Bruce sighs and pulls the boy into a hug. He can feel Tim shivering slightly, and he’s cold to the touch.

“How long have you been in here?” he asks, pulling out of the hug enough to examine his son—there’s some part of him that needs to check, to make sure that the boy is actually there, alive and whole. “ _Why_ are you in here?”

“Um,” the boy shifts a little, still shivering. “I…”

Bruce can tell already that any answer he gets will take serious prompting and cajoling. He decides to forgo that for the time being, and ushers the boy down the hall and back towards the well-lit, _heated_ part of the Manor.

“I found him.” He says into the comm, because it suddenly occurs to him that Alfred and Jason are still searching for the missing boy. He shuts the comm off after that though, because it will be easier to explain it all at once, instead of over the system.

Alfred and Jason are both in the kitchen by the time they get there. Bruce can see the tension leave as soon as both men see that Tim is fine. Alfred sighs and says something about making them tea, then starts to bustle around the kitchen. Jason looks a little torn between anger and relief, so Bruce shoots him a look, shaking his head slightly.

“Where the hell were you?” Jason asks, clearly choosing to ignore Bruce. “Are you okay?” and then, to Bruce, “He’s okay, right?”

Bruce sighs, then pulls chair out for Tim, taking a seat himself. Now that they’re in a room with light, he can see that the boy is wearing a thin t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and is barefoot. He frowns slightly, trying to figure out exactly _what_ his fifteen-year-old son was doing in the deserted part of the house at three in the morning.

Jason stifles a groan, because he can see Bruce making The Face. It’s the expression he makes when he’s questioning everything about his parenting. He really makes that face a lot when it comes to Tim, Jason notes, glancing at said culprit. The kid looks like he’s hoping to shrink and disappear in his seat, knees pulled up to his chest, watching Bruce with a guarded expression. It occurs to Jason that it’s entirely possible that they’re both misinterpreting the other’s expression.

“Okay!” he says, breaking the silence. “Bruce, can you stop making that face? Please? And Tim…for God’s sake, here,” he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the kid, “put this on. You’re shivering.”

Tim pulls the jacket on silently. Bruce looks confused, but he’s not making The Face anymore, so Jason doesn’t comment. As soon as he’s sure that both of his commands have been followed, he hums in approval, then sits down on the edge of the counter.

“Thank you. So…Tim? We’d _all_ like an explanation.”

Tim chews his bottom lip for a minute, then mutters “I dunno.” He’s running his fingers along the ridges of the zipper on the jacket, looking somewhere around his feet.

“That’s not an adequate answer.” Bruce says, not _roughly_ , but not exactly _encouragingly._ “Elaborate.”

“Um…” Tim stares harder at his feet, still fidgeting with the jacket. “Um…I, um…w-woke up there?”

Bruce frowns. “You…’woke up there’? You were sleepwalking?”

“Y-yeah?”

Bruce glances at Jason, as though checking to see if he had any idea. Jason shakes his head slightly—he’s just as surprised as Bruce is. The older man frowns again, studying Tim intently.

“Since when?”

“Always?” Tim shrugs. “I dunno. I-it happened all the time when I was l-little—I’d wake up all over the house, maybe three times a w-week? A-and then it stopped, mostly, w-when I was Robin…and…n-now it happens again s-sometimes.”

“ _Why didn’t you tell me?”_ Bruce looks slightly hurt and very frustrated.

Jason rolls his eyes, because of course Bruce would think it was his fault somehow. Tim manages to shrink even further in his seat, and shrugs again. Alfred is hovering near the stove, clearly listening, and just as surprised as the rest—he had had no idea either.

“Did you actually tell _anybody?”_ Jason asks, because otherwise this will quickly turn into the blame game.

Tim nods. “D-dick knows. Caught me one time. S-so, he…he’d, um, wake me up, b-before I got anywhere. B-but not so much anymore. Um, cuz I, um…he…w-well, I, um…moved out? And I wasn’t _really_ d-doing it _that_ much…before.”

Jason nods, because that makes sense. Dick is a very light sleeper, and his room is right next to Tim’s. The timeline makes sense too, when he thinks about it—kids do grow out of sleepwalking, but the last year and a half were _not_ kind to any of them, but especially to Tim. He’d lost person after person, as well as what stability there had been in his life, all in an incredibly short span of time. That would be enough to give anyone bad dreams, let alone reawaken childhood habits like sleepwalking.

Alfred brings over a mug of tea, which he hands to Tim with a pointed look—there’s to be no arguing over drinking it. He passes out mugs to the other two, a cup of his own waiting on the counter. Tim seems willing to use the drink as a stalling mechanism, taking long sips, looking up through his bangs to gauge the mood.

Bruce sighs, but seems willing to let it drop.

“Okay. It’s okay, Tim. I’m not mad.” He offers a small smile, seeing Tim watching him. “You just…scared us. No one knew where you were. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Jason chimes in, taking a big gulp of his drink. “Freaked everyone out, man. You can’t just up and disappear, y’know?”

“Sorry.”

Alfred clears his throat, drawing their attention.

“Perhaps we can discuss this at a later time?” he proposes, a stern note to it—they _will_ talk about it later. “It is quite late, and high time for all of us to get some rest.”

Jason hops up off the counter, putting his cup down.

“C’mon, squirt!” he says, clapping the younger boy on the shoulder. “Alfred has spoken. Your toes are blue, just so you know.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but gets up and trail after Jason. He glances back once, trying to gauge how angry Bruce is (Bruce is not good at lying, and he’s definitely pissed). Then he hurries to catch up with Jason.

“You gotta give that back later.” Jason says when they’re on the stairs.

“What, your jacket?” Tim snorts. “Like I’d want your sweaty, germy jacket.”

“I dunno, you seem pretty fond of it right now!”

“’s warm.”

Jason snorts, but stops teasing the kid—he wouldn’t put it past Tim to take the jacket off and throw it into his head. He reaches the top of the stairs, then waits half a second for Tim to catch up. His brother shoves past him, muttering something about not needing an escort.

They both head down the hall, more than ready for sleep. Suddenly, Jason trips over something on the floor, and only barely manages to keep himself from face-planting on the carpet. The object moves, and starts to pant—Titus. The Great Dane gets up and starts snuffling at Jason’s hair with great concern.

Tim giggles, and does nothing to help call the dog off. Jason groans, then shoves the dog’s face out of the way so he can sit up. Titus practically wiggles with glee, thrilled to have somebody down at his level.

“What the hell, dog?” Jason growls, scrambling up before he can be further molested by the monster-sized creature. “Why aren’t you in bed with the Demon Brat?”

“I think he’s locked out.” Tim says, gesturing to the bedroom door, which is closed tightly.

“Huh.”

Jason pushes the dog aside and opens the door, letting Titus surge through the small gap. He chuckles, and starts to shut the door. Then, without warning, Titus starts growling, the noise rumbling from deep inside. Jason frowns and Tim shrugs, then slips through the small opening as well.

With a groan, Jason follows—Tim and Damian alone in the dark is a complete recipe for disaster. He flips on the light, and then almost runs right into Tim. The kid doesn’t even turn around, just stares at the bed, and Jason knows immediately that something is wrong.

It takes a second for his mind to recognize and accept what his eyes are taking in. The bedsheets are soaked in blood, the smell permeating the room. There’s a child in the bed…and it’s not Damian. Jason recognizes the cartoon pajamas—it’s Lucas Devonport, the Cradle Robber’s latest victim. Only, Jason realizes, the boy is no longer the latest victim… _Damian_ is.

He lets out a slow, shuddery breath, remembering suddenly that he’s not alone. Tim’s standing as though frozen, staring at the scene with huge eyes. Jason grimaces, then grabs the boy around his waist, hefting him up and out the door quickly. Thankfully, Tim is still shocked enough to not fight back too much.

“Okay.” Jason says, thinking rapidly. “Look, you need to go get Bruce and Alfred. I’m gonna…check and see if…Just go get them.”

Tim opens his mouth to protest, so Jason cuts him off.

“ _Now,_ Tim. Go!”

He spins the boy around, pushing him towards the stairs. Tim stumbles for a second, then starts moving, practically sprinting down the stairs. Jason swallows slowly, not wanting to turn back to the room. Then he inhales slowly, and walks towards the open door—he needs to get started if they have any hope of catching the monster responsible.

After Jason and Tim had gone upstairs, Bruce groans softly, sagging back in his chair. Now that the adrenaline has faded from his system, he’s tired. He stares at his cup, as though hoping it would hold all the answers.

“What are we going to do with that boy?” he muses, after a second. “ _Why_ _didn’t he tell us?”_

Alfred sighs, looking worn. “I could offer several likely explanations. However, I suspect you’ve already thought of them.”

Bruce nods. Yes, he has thought of a few reasons why Tim would withhold such information. The one that seem most likely would be that, based on the information Bruce has about Tim’s childhood, the issue was probably either ignored or just overlooked by parents who were much more involved in their own lives than that of their child; and that, Tim being Tim, he’d probably found ways to work around it, being far too well accustomed to taking care of himself and his problems alone, and so had either decided or just assumed that he needed to continue to handle it alone when he’d started staying at Wayne Manor.

I am a horrible parent, Bruce thinks glumly. He keeps replaying Tim’s explanation in his mind— _“It stopped mostly when I was Robin…Started again…I moved out…didn’t happen so much_ before.”

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Bruce asks quietly.

“I rather think it is the fault of no one.” Alfred responds gently. “I was just as much in the dark as you, sir.”

“Yeah, but you heard him—it started up again _after_ all the loss he suffered through…and then I was displaced in time, and everyone assumed I was dead too.”

“And this is your fault how?”

Bruce sighs in frustration. “I didn’t do anything when his friends died, _or_ when Jack was murdered. I just…I let him pretend to be ‘okay’, because I didn’t know how to deal with it. And I did the same thing when I came back. That boy risked _everything, gave up_ so much to bring me back…and I did nothing. I just…I pretended that he was fine, that, because Tim is so independent, I didn’t need to parent him anymore. I screwed up, Alfred.”

“We all did, sir.” Alfred says firmly. “You are not the only one who failed him.”

“But still—“

The sound of feet on the stair stops him. Tim comes racing into the kitchen, face alarmingly pale. He’s out of breath, so he points a shaking finger towards the stairs, working hard to get enough oxygen to speak. Bruce had already jumped up when his son had entered, and now he moves quickly to the stairs, leaving Alfred to find out what Tim was trying to say.

Bruce rushes up the stairs, fear building up inside of him again. There are only a few things he can think of that would send the boy back down the stairs looking that alarmed, and none of them are even remotely good. He feels his mind freeze when he reaches the top and sees the open doorway.

Jason steps out of the room, face grim and as pale as Tim’s had been, and Bruce _knows._ But he still enters the room and looks at the scene. Inside, he’s already pleading to whoever might be listening— _please let this be a dream._ But it isn’t, and a look at Jason tells him that it’s just as bad as he thought. The plea changes— _please let me find him. Let me save my little boy._

_The house was so much bigger than it looked from the outside. He’d gotten lost once, getting in. But finding the right room had been much easier. He’d been worried that the boy would wake up, and he’d have to do something regrettable. But the child was sleeping quite soundly. It had been easy to take him. Of course, when he’d started to restrain the boy, there’d been a struggle. He’d had to leave marks on the boy’s soft skin. But, he knew they had been necessary, so he felt little guilt._

_Leaving the other one behind had been difficult though. He’d really loved that one—such gorgeous hair and eyes. But that was all over, and he’d rescued one, he’d saved that one from the cruel world._

_He drives now, speeding down the highway and into the city. The boy sleeps in the backseat, face relaxed and peaceful. He should look like that all the time, the man thinks. Then he smiles, because he’ll make sure that the boy remains that way…forever._

_The child starts to stir, eyes opening slowly. Such pretty eyes. They watch him closely, huge and round, bright in dim light. The eyes are the windows to the soul, he muses. What kind of soul do those eyes hide? Perhaps he’ll have to dig inside to find out…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sad, because I just reached the end of the quote I was using for the chapter titles. Ah, VeggieTales--the staple of my childhood. (In case you were wondering, the quote is "I wanted to play Mousetrap. You roll your dice, you move your mice, nobody gets hurt.")


	4. Shattering and Shrinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets a call in the middle of the night, and rushes home to help. But with no real leads, there's not much to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! School's back in session, so I'm back to being a full-time student and working full-time. Hopefully, I'll keep updating regularly, but I swear that we will reach the end BEFORE Thanksgiving.

Dick was asleep when he got the call. But, despite being mostly asleep, he’d still managed to get dressed and catch a ride back to Gotham in record speed. Since none of the Kryptonians where planet-side, and none of the speedsters were available, he’d had to catch a plane. It was quite possibly one of the worst, slowest, most aggravating flights of his life.

By the time he pulls up to the Manor, it’s nearly dawn. There are several police cars outside, and Dick frowns slightly—Bruce must have called them, which means…it means nothing good. He pushes the thought aside and goes inside as quickly as he can without running.

He finds Jason first, looking like he wants to punch something.

“Hey,” Dick says, hoping that Jason isn’t going to fight him. “You okay?”

Jason stares. “What do you think?”

Dick sighs and shrugs. He wants to pull Jason into a hug—he can practically _see_ how freaked out and tired his brother is. But they’re still not entirely on good terms (honestly, the only people Jason’s on good terms with are Alfred and Tim), so he settles for reaching over and squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. He’s a little surprised when Jason leans into the touch slightly—he much be _really_ shaken.

“Where’s everyone?” Dick asks, because otherwise this would get awkward. “What do we know?”

“Mostly in the living room. They’re not letting anyone upstairs until they’ve cleared the scene. Bruce is pissed, but he’s playing nice right now.”

“Wait, _Bruce_ called them?”

“Yeah,” Jason looks very concerned. “Dick, we’ve been chasing this guy for _months,_ and we still don’t have anything. Bruce thought it’d be best if we got everyone on it. We’ve already been over the crime scene and gotten all the evidence we could, so now it’s the GCPD’s turn.”

Dick nods. “It makes sense,” he says lamely. “And the others?”

“Alfred’s trying to keep the circus in check. I’m not sure where Tim went. I mean, they interviewed him or whatever, but after that…” Jason shrugs. “It’s not like any of us _saw_ anything. Anyways, I was just about to look for him.”

“I’ll help.” Dick offers, because he’s not ready to think about everything yet.

It takes them nearly half an hour to find their younger brother. Dick finally finds him in one of the many sitting rooms. Tim still has Jason’s jacket on, almost disappearing into it in his position.

His knees are pulled up to his chin, shoulders hunched. It’s as though he’s attempting to disappear entirely, and, while that’s not _actually possible,_ he’s still able to look a lot smaller than usual.

Dick sighs, because he’s tired, and terrified for Damian, and not sure how they’ll save him, and scared for what might happen if they don’t—not just to Damian, but to the rest of the family as well. After everything they’ve been through, he’s pretty sure that they’ll not survive another loss. Dick knows _he_ probably won’t survive, at least, not without damage.

Jason will probably survive, he’s resilient like that. But Bruce and Tim…Dick’s not so sure.

He knows how his dad will react—hell, it wasn’t that long ago that Jason had been the one to not be found in time. Bruce will shatter on the inside, and this time, nobody will put him back together, because Tim will shatter too…but where Bruce channels it out onto the rest of the world, Tim just pulls it all in, shuts off everything.

Dick remembers this posture, it’s the way Tim looked when Kon died, and Bart, and Steph, and his father, and each time someone else died, his shoulders slumped further, his knees pulled in tighter, and he shrinks in further, pulling back into whatever place it is that he feels is better than this.

After Bruce came back, it’d taken _months_ before any of the things that made Tim _Tim_ came back out—before he’d smile, or not outright flinch away from physical contact, before he’d even started to _sound_ like the boy who’d found Batman’s identity out when he was nine, instead of a dead, robotic imposter. Tim had _just_ started to come back now, and Dick’s not sure that Tim _will_ come back from this if...

He sighs again, not wanting to think about any of the unknowns anymore. So instead, he sits down on the couch and wraps his arms around his little brother. It takes a moment, but then Tim hugs him back, clinging to him. Dick hums sympathetically, rubbing the boy’s back.

Tim says something, but his face is pressed into Dick’s shirt, so it’s pretty much intelligible. Dick frowns, looking down, but all he can see from this angle is the top of Tim’s head.

“What?” he asks, because he can’t decipher the sounds.

“It’s my fault.” Tim says in a shaking voice, pulling away from his older brother.

“No,” Dick protests. “No, Tim. It’s not your fau—“

“If I hadn’t gotten out of bed, then they wouldn’t have had to look for me, and nobody would have gotten into the Manor!”

He’s physically shaking now, hands clenched into fists, entire body tense and rigid. Dick knows his little brother well enough to recognize that Tim’s trying very hard to not cry right now.

“Tim.” Dick says, shaking his brother very gently by the shoulders. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.” Each word is punctuated with a shake. “ _None of this is your fault,”_ he says firmly, looking Tim in the eye. “Not even a little.”

“But—“

“Did you _choose_ to sleepwalk?”

“N-no…”

“Of course not. You did _not_ choose to have nightmares _or_ to go on a trek in the middle of the night. I _know_ you don’t have control over those things. Okay? So if you didn’t choose it, how could any of it be your fault?”

He’s hoping that the logic will work with his oh-so logical brother. Tim’s always been one of those people who takes logical arguments a lot better than anything else. He’s too smart for a kid, but he _is_ a kid, and kids are, by nature, irrational and illogical.

“It’s not your fault.” He says softly, looking at Tim intently. “ _Nobody_ is mad at you,” he adds, because he _knows_ that’s the heart of it—Tim is just as terrified of them sometimes as he is of the things that stalk him in his sleep. He’s scared that this time will be the one that makes them all give up and leave.

Dick can’t understand it—his childhood was never filled with anything but security, love, and warmth. But Tim’s wasn’t, and Dick is reminded of this yet again. He’s hurt that the boy still expects them to just up and leave, and yet, he knows that this fear is just as much his fault as it is anybody’s.

“No one’s mad.” He says again, praying that this time, it’ll get through. “No one is mad that they had to look for you, okay? And absolutely _no one_ thinks that it’s your fault.”

Tim lets out a long, quivery breath and nods slightly. Dick’s not sure if this is more to appease him or because Tim believes it, but it’s not worth pushing. He smiles at the kid, then ruffles his hair, because this always produces a ridiculously cute expression, regardless of how upset Tim is.

“Okay. Why don’t we go find Jason?”

Dick stands up, offering Tim a hand. The boy’s a little stiff from sitting all curled up for hours, so Dick slings an arm over his shoulder to steady him. Tim leans in against him, and allows himself to be led out of the room and back to the occupied parts of the house.

Jason is sitting in the living room, watching Bruce talk to one of the officers when his brothers show up. He takes the scene in, raising an eyebrow—it would appear that Tim is no longer actively pissed off at Dick. He scoots over to make room on the couch, which is already too small for more than two people (even if Tim is too skinny), so he ends up against the arm of the couch, Tim sandwiched in between him and Dick.

“You still have to give the jacket back.” He whispers, more because he knows that it’ll make Tim smile a little than because he actually wants it back. “Just sayin’.”

Tim snorts, but doesn’t snap back. Instead, he leans his head on Jason’s shoulder, and watches as their father argues with the police. It’s not Inspector Gordon, and that’s probably a big part of why he’s doing it. The poor man looks totally flustered, looking desperately around for someone to help.

“Have you made _sure_ that there’s no way he can get out of the city?” Bruce is asking fiercely. “Is there anyone more competent here?”

The poor guy looks over at the brothers, as though he thinks that one of them will defend him. Dick pretends to be busy zipping up the jacket Tim’s wearing (and since the kid _is_ shivering, it’s totally plausible), refusing to make any eye contact. Tim has the advantage of being young and small—the officer literally overlooks him. Jason just gives the man an evil grin and shrugs slightly.

“Look, if you don’t know how to do your job, maybe someone else should!” Bruce snaps, clearly running out of what patience he had left.

Dick clears his throat softly, catching his father’s eye. He shakes his head a little, mouthing “chill out” at the irate man. For a second, Bruce looks like he’s going to start yelling at Dick now, but then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m…sorry, Officer Patton.” He says after a minute. “That wasn’t fair.”

Officer Patton nods in acknowledgement. He looks over at the small audience they’ve accrued on the couch, as though assessing them now. Jason immediately doesn’t like the guy—he’s seen men like that before, the kind that are always looking for the upper-hand and have an inflated sense of power. He glares back, which doesn’t seem to faze the man at all.

“You were both home when the incident occurred?” the cop says, looking from Jason to Tim and back. “All the occupied bedrooms are in that part of the house. How is it that neither of you heard anything?”

“Because we weren’t in bed, asshole.” Jason says, the insult slipping out unintentionally.

Bruce gives him a look.

“Sorry, I meant ‘officer’. I was downstairs, getting something to drink.”

“And you?” The cop clearly decides it’s not worth acknowledging the insult and turns to Tim (if he’s expecting someone less resistant, he chose the wrong brother). “Were you getting a drink too?”

“I believe you’ve already taken Tim’s statement, Officer Patton.” Bruce interjects smoothly. “But, since you ask—my son suffers from occasional bouts of sleepwalking. He was with me, downstairs, after a nightmare. I thought something warm to drink might help him feel better, so we joined Jason.”

For some stupid reason, Jason is always impressed by the ease with which his father lies. This time, he’s also spitefully gleeful, because Bruce has effectively shut the asshole cop down. Next to him, Tim relaxes very slightly, probably glad to avoid rehashing the evening for a second time.

“Fine.” The officer pulls out a notebook, flipping through it. “Why was there a window open upstairs? It was in, ah…Tim’s room, right?” He looks at Tim with a slight frown. “It’s maybe twenty degrees outside. Why would you leave a window open?”

Tim shrugs, fidgeting with the cuff of one sleeve (it’s something he does whenever he’s uncomfortable, Jason’s noticed), but he finally does answer.

“I…don’t like, um…” he hesitates, fishing for the words. “I don’t like it when it’s all, um, shut in. The window’s always open. It helps me sleep.”

“It helps you sleep?” The man says skeptically. “So it was open when you went to bed?”

“I…yeah?”

From behind the officer, Bruce frowns. That’d make this the second thing he hadn’t known about his third son until tonight, and the knowledge was upsetting. The cop doesn’t notice and keeps going.

“I don’t suppose you knew how _dangerous_ that can be? I mean, really, it’s just all around risky. Hell, if you’d been in bed still, it could have been _you_ we’re looking for now.”

Tim flinches, while Bruce crosses his arms and glares, opening his mouth to protest. Dick beats him to it.

“That’s totally uncalled for!” The young man snaps, jumping up as though he’s willing to punch the man. “And inappropriate as well.”

“And you are?”

“Richard Grayson. And you’re done here.” He moves forward, effectively intimidating the man into moving back…right into Bruce.

The officer whirls around, and is met with a very stony, grim expression. The billionaire moves aside and indicates the door.

“After you.”

There’s no room for debate, and the man leaves, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Dick. The young man waves at him with false cheer, smirking slightly. Bruce sighs a little at his eldest son’s behavior, then moves to escort the cop out.

As soon as the officer is gone, the mood in the room lightens up considerably. Of course, this just means that no one feels like punching anyone.

Jason groans and flops back against the couch, stretching. “God, that guy was a piece of work.”

Tim shifts to avoid the flailing limbs, shoving at Jason. “Watch it!”

“He was totally out of line though.” Dick says, pulling Tim into a hug and off of the couch, before the boy can start punching. “I mean, really. Who looks at a third story window and think ‘security breach’? So much bullshit.”

“He was right though.” Tim says, squirming slightly in the embrace. “How else could anyone have gotten in?”

Dick frowns. “There’s no proof though, Timmy. So it’s all just guessing.”

“Yeah!” Jason chimes in. “And the dude is a complete tool.”

Tim’s not quite so convinced that it’s just a guess—his room is the only one with no security system. Granted, he’d been the one to disable it, but still. If it had been any other open window, then the alarms would have gone off. But he appreciates his older brothers’ efforts, so he doesn’t argue it.

“Okay. Dick, can you put me down now?” he elbows his big brother in the ribs, hard.

Dick drops him back onto the couch, rubbing his side ruefully and with fake indignation.

“ _Ow._ Not nice. Look, I’m gonna go talk to Bruce and Alfred. Jay, why don’t you try to grab a few hours of sleep? You’re half-dead here, and that’s not going to help anyone.”

There’s no point in telling Tim to sleep, but he knows how Jason operates. As Dick walks to the door, he hears a squawk of surprise and a scuffle behind him—Jason has splayed himself down on the couch…and on top of Tim. Since there’s a serious weight difference, Dick knows that Jason will win the struggle.

Good, he thinks, exiting the room. They’ll need all the sleep they can get...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I was going to include a scene or two of what's going on with poor Damian, but it just didn't work with the chapter. But I promise, we'll find out what's happening to him soon!  
> Anyway, I'm operating on way too little sleep and far too much caffeine and spite. So if there's any errors or things don't make sense, I apologize. I'll be editing it as soon as I'm functioning like a normal human again.  
> We'll be back to regular updates hopefully, and I've got a few one-shots and short stories that I'm hoping to put up in between updates. I'm sure you all know that there's only so much mystery, creepy, and murder a person can write with no break.  
> Thanks for hanging in there, guys!


	5. Puzzling, Isn't It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly sleep deprived, Jason and Dick realize that there's one resource left that they haven't used yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in as many days? WHAT?!? I'm pretty sure there's some sort of assignment I've forgotten, because why else would I be this productive? I mean, I MUST be procrastinating on something!

A day later, there are still no leads. Bruce alternates between being a concerned parent and being the Dark Knight, not sleeping at all. Jason and Dick spend _hours_ just wandering the city and interviewing everyone they come across, hoping to find something. At home, Alfred is preoccupied and cleans obsessively in an effort to distract himself. Tim just sort of floats around—he’s not allowed back at school for now, and he’s not allowed to help with the case, so he has a lot of time to think.

In a lot of ways, this suits him just fine, because thinking _is_ his strong suite. But there’s only so much thinking one can do before they run out of things to distract themselves with. Which is why he’s sitting on a couch, running the events of the previous day through his head yet again.

It all boils down to the fact that he left that stupid window open. It hadn’t been on purpose, he tries to console himself. It’d been a habit—he’s left windows open year-round before, back when he’d lived in his parents’ house. It’d been a comforting thing then—the wind made noises, and he felt less alone, less trapped.

But I don’t live there anymore, he thinks bitterly. I should have stopped being stupid about it years ago. And now Damian’s gone, because I can’t sleep with the window shut.

“Idiot.” He mutters under his breath. He’s such an idiot.

He shifts to look out the window, wondering where everyone is right now. He imagines that Nightwing and Red Hood are probably tearing across the rooftops, trying to find some sort of clue. Bruce is probably talking to the press, who’ve been attracted to the entire drama like sharks to blood, hence Tim not being allowed to go to school.

It occurs to him that if they can’t find Damian, he’s still going to have to go to school. He’ll have to go and he’ll have to be around all these people who will suddenly pretend that they’re friends and cared so much about Damian and are just so concerned about Tim now. _And_ he’ll have to walk home alone…

Tim sits up straight, remembering two days ago, when they’d been walking home…and that creepy artist had talked to them. Of course, he’d already told both Bruce and the police about the incident, hoping that it would help. But nothing had come of it—the man was clean and had an alibi, and “you can’t arrest people for being creepy, Tim.”

He frowns slightly, then gets up and runs downstairs and into the cave. Logging on to the super computer is easy enough—Bruce must’ve forgotten to change the security codes. Tim grins a little as he types the name into the search engine: _Scott Lundgrin._

_The first thing Damian thinks is that he’s dead. He has to be dead. How else could it be this dark and silent? But he isn’t._

_Then the smell hits him—blood, great quantities of it. For one brief moment, he wonders if this is his mother punishing him somehow. But he reasons quickly that this can’t be the case…and he remembers being asleep, feeling someone in his room, fighting and struggling, knocking things over. He’d tried so hard to get away, to make noise and wake Tim up or alert Alfred. But he’d been asleep, and the stranger had the advantage of surprise, size, and strength._

_And now he was here, in this dark, cold room that smelled of death. He’d been tied to something, strapped down, really. The closest comparison he can come up with is a surgical table._

_There’s someone upstairs, and Damian tries to struggle, but he’s strapped tight—he can’t even lift his head. He hears footsteps and a doorknob rattling, and light comes spilling in from behind him. He struggles harder, suddenly filled with an irrational terror._

_Part of Damian’s mind is trying hard to remind him that he’s been locked up before, been strapped down before, he’s even been tortured before. But the rest of him won’t stop screaming for help. His mother had said he’d gone soft, and she must be correct, because all Damian can do is panic and struggle, even whimpering a little, like a silly child._

_He watches as a shadow looms over him, blocking the light. Straining his eyes upward, he can’t tell who it is. Then the person moves, walks past Damian to the far end of the room. In the dim light, Damian cannot tell what the man is doing, but he recognizes the clinking sounds of metal against metal. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steel himself for whatever comes next._

Jason is swearing up a storm when they get back from patrol. It’s been two days almost and they’re no closer to finding Damian than before. He throws his gear down on the table roughly, trying hard not to lose what little control he has left over the growing anger.

Dick comes in behind him, sighing tiredly. He’s already spent the entire ride home cursing every deity known to man, and a few that weren’t. Now he’s just tired and frustrated.

“Jason, just shut up.” He snaps, because it’s not helping anything and he’s just so done.

Jason looks like he’s ready to fight over this, so Dick decides on a sort of retreat, first to the lockers and then upstairs. He runs over everything they know about the case again and again. Jason joins him about twenty minutes later, sitting down hard on a chair in the sitting room.

“This isn’t working.” Jason declares suddenly.

“No shit.”

Jason sighs and flings one arm over his eyes. “I got nothin’, Dick. Nothin’.”

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, taking a seat himself. “Me either.”

They sit in silence for a while, thinking of everything, struggling to find something they could have missed.

Finally, Dick groans. “We’ve gone over _everything_ at least ten times. I mean, we’ve looked at everything and we still have no leads.”

“You’re really getting me down here.”

“Clues aren’t our strengths, Jay. That’s what I’m saying. We’ve been using all of our resources…”

“Except one.” Jason sits up, understanding what Dick’s getting at. “But Bruce was pretty clear about that…”

Dick shrugs. “The situation has changed. And there’s only one person I know who’s better at finding the hidden patterns than even Bruce.”

“Okay.” Jason agrees.

They look for Tim for a good ten minutes, before it actually occurs to either of them that he’s probably in bed. Tim hasn’t been sleeping in his room, and Jason’s not actually sure where he _has_ been sleeping. He mentions this to Dick as they go upstairs.

“He’s been staying in my room.” Dick says, not bothering to look at Jason. “I mean, I’m not really using it much right now. Besides, it makes it a little easier to keep track of him.”

“Huh.”

Tim is actually where they think he is, which strikes Jason as weird. Of course, it’s Tim, so he’s still awake—he’s sitting at the head of the bed, doing something on his laptop, headphones on. Dick jumps onto the foot of the bed, nearly upsetting the computer.

“What the—“ Tim starts to protest.

“We need your help.” Dick states.

Ten minutes later, they’re in the kitchen. Jason had offered to make a snack, and that seemed to be the best bribe they had, so Tim was out of bed and cooperating. They’d given him all the case files, notes, and anything they felt might help. The papers are now strewn across the dining room table, Tim pouring over them rapidly.

He’s an incredibly fast reader, even faster than Jason, so he’s finished reading by the time Jason shoves a bowl of mac-and-cheese at him. He starts eating almost mechanically, eyes focused on the pages.

Jason gives Dick a look. The older man shrugs—he’s seen Tim in action enough times to be used to the blank stares and silence, but he does remember being thoroughly confused and a little creeped out back at the beginning of their relationship.

Nearly an hour later, Tim slaps the table top to get his older brothers’ attention.

“Here’s what I’ve got.” He shoves a notepad with scribbled writing at them.

Dick squints at it, trying to read Tim’s cramped, messy scrawl. After minute, his head starts to hurt, and he gives up.

“Just tell us.”

Tim shrugs. “’Kay. So, if you look at all the abduction locations on a map…” he lays the one he’s been using out, pointing at the dots. “There’s definitely a pattern. Look: each week, he’s in a different area, right? But all of them have the same uniform shape—they’re all focused on ten block spaces.”

“Okay?” Jason says, frowning. “And?”

“I don’t know. You said to find patterns, not give you answers.” Tim sticks his tongue out at Jason before continuing. “Also, in every single case, no one reports seeing anyone unusual or suspicious in the days before or that night. I mean, even the later cases, where everyone was on really high alert. Nobody ever saw anyone strange.”

Dick nods. “So they must have all known him.”

“That really makes no sense.” Jason chimes in. “I mean, we’ve looked at the parents’ lives _and_ the kids’ too. None of them overlap. Sure, the kids all go to the same schools, but that’s literally it. And every single teacher who could be a suspect has been cleared. We even sort of…inspected their houses. They didn’t do it.”

Tim shrugs. “Sorry. If you give me a couple more hours, maybe I’ll find something better.”

As neither of them has a better idea, and since the things Tim pointed out _are_ better leads than the ones they’ve had all day, both of them agree. Dick helps get the files upstairs, where Bruce or Alfred are less likely to find them.

“Thanks, kiddo!” Dick says, ruffling Tim’s hair. “Those are the best leads we’ve had in a while.”

“Yeah.” Jason shoves the kid lightly. “Finally, we’ve got a use for your big brain. Now go to bed.”

Tim rolls his eyes and mutters “yes, _dad.”_ But he starts off for the bedroom, so Jason doesn’t feel too offended. He grins at Dick.

“Let’s get started then.”

 _It’s cold now,_ so cold. _Damian can’t stop shaking, even though every shudder hurts. Everything hurts, and he wants so badly to cry. But he’s not a child, and he can take it. Or so he keeps repeating, like a mantra._

 _The man left about an hour ago, whispering in Damian’s ear that he’d be back later. He’d been_ humming _as he left—an old lullaby that Damian knows from watching movies with Jason and Tim. Grayson and Father never agreed to let him watch anything besides children’s movies, but the other two had been willing to sneak in horror movies occasionally (when he and Drake weren’t fighting). The lullaby had been a popular one in the movies, and they’d all laughed a little over how ridiculous that was—songs weren’t_ scary. _And yet…he’s never been more afraid for himself._

_He’d screamed, at least at first. It was to keep his cover, he told himself. First, the screams had been insults and curses. But after the first few hours, they’d been less anger and more fear. He vaguely recalls calling for his family. He’d screamed for his father and for Grayson, for Jason and Pennyworth, even for Drake. And then his throat felt like it was on fire, and he’d stopped._

_Maybe he’d cried then, Damian couldn’t really remember now. His face feels gross, like he had. But he can’t remember much after he’d stopped screaming. Well, he remembers thinking that his mother would have been ashamed. But after that, everything was just a blur of pain and fear and darkness._  

Tim _had_ actually gone to bed. And then he’d woken up a couple hours later from a nightmare. He was used to that—he’d had night terrors almost every night as a child, and, while they’d gotten less frequent, they definitely hadn’t stopped. But he’d learned to deal with them.

His best method of dealing was to work on a project. So he’d pulled the files out and started studying them. Around six that morning, he’d found something.

Breathlessly, Tim had gone over everything again, triple checking to ensure that he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there. When he was sure, _entirely sure_ that this was what they’d all been missing, he’d started trying to figure out what to do.

After a little thought, he’d decided to check it out himself. After all, Dick and Jason were out and who knew when they’d be back. And Bruce and Alfred can’t know that he’s been looking at the case, so he can’t tell them. Besides, it could be nothing…  

Getting out of the house is easy right now—Alfred’s in the opposite side of the Manor, Bruce, Dick, and Jason are on patrol, and, given the urgency and stress of the situation, Tim has been more or less left to his own devices. A petty, childish part of him is upset and hurt that they’ve pretty much forgotten him in favor of Damian _again._ But the rest of him is both guilty at even daring to feel jealous of his missing brother and also a little gleeful, because it’s been a while since he was allowed to come and go as he pleases.

Tim catches a bus into the heart of downtown Gotham, just as he’d done for years as a kid. He’s uploaded the tracking system to his phone, so he knows where his dad and brothers are (the Police Station and the Narrows respectively), and he can relax a little. He’s got a goal

Scott Lundgrin’s house was a nasty looking little hovel in one of the more run-down neighborhoods. Tim had found the address yesterday, planning to check the artist out himself, just in case someone overlooked something. Now, he had a different goal.

The artist answered the door after two knocks. He looked thoroughly confused by Tim’s presence, and a little alarmed as well. Good. Tim could work with that.

“I need to talk to you.” He demanded. “Now.”

The man lets him in without an argument, looking fascinated. He gestures to the couch.

“Please, do sit down.”

Tim doesn’t.

“Do you remember me?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

“Hmmm…yes! You were the boy… the one who wasn’t very nice. You had that, um, the other boy, with the eyes.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You were very rude.”

“Sorry.” Tim’s not sorry, but whatever. “Look, I need to know something—how long were you there sketching?”

“Oh, all day, really.” Scott Lundgrin shrugs. “It’s a lovely spot.”

Tim bites back his comments. “Sure. And you sketched _everything_ you saw?”

“Oh, well, not _everything._ I never sketch things that aren’t worth capturing. Defeats the purpose, you know?”

“I need to see those sketches.” Tim says firmly.

The man frowns. “No.”

“No?” Tim feels his anger rising. “Why not?”

“I get something in return. It’s only fair. The drawings are a window to my soul, and it’s not right for you to go snooping in my personal essence if you give nothing in return.”

“What do you want?” Tim’s thoroughly baffled—he’s never understood artists like this.

Lundgrin hums thoughtfully. “A picture.”

“Um…” Tim’s suddenly very aware that no one knows where he is, and that he’s sitting in a strange man’s house, with the door closed.

“Just one. And nothing like _that._ ” He has the audacity to look offended. “Just a head-shot, I think. You’ve got distinctive eyes too, though not as nice at the other one’s.”  
“Fine.” Tim agrees, not in the mood to argue.

The man grins gleefully, hopping up to go get his camera. Tim looks around, taking in the room. It’s tastefully decorated, actually, and the paintings on the walls must have been done by hand. Tim’s impressed.

Lundgrin comes back in, wielding a hefty looking Polaroid camera.

“Smile.”

“I _don’t_ smile.” Tim snaps.

“Fine.” The artist sighs, then snaps the picture.

As soon as he’s satisfied, he heads back into the depths of the house, leaving Tim blinking from the flash. He’s back before Tim’s vision is entirely clear, shoving the sketchpad into the boy’s lap.

“Thanks.” Tim mutters, flipping through until he finds what he’s looking for. “Do you have any other pictures with him in them?”

They flip through the pictures for the better part of an hour, putting ones that meet the criteria aside. Finally, Tim leans back and looks at them all, studying every detail. Then, he grins and stands up.

“Thank you, Mr. Lundgrin. You’ve been a lot of help.”

The man looks puzzled, but nods. “Sure?”

Tim nearly runs out of the house, tossing “You really do have a lot of talent!” over his shoulder.

He doesn’t stop until at least half a mile away, gasping for air. Hands shaking from exertion, he pulls his phone out to check on his family. They’re all still a good half-hour from where Tim is, so he’s got time. Now he just needs to borrow a computer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Damian is trying so hard to be brave, but he's just a kid. But Tim's on the case, so there's hope! Also, plot twist! The artist didn't do it. But he's still a creep, so feel free to not like him (I know I don't). Anyone have a guess as to who the Cradle Robber really is? Let me hear those theories!  
> Thanks for reading. Hang in there, guys. We're getting to the good stuff :D


	6. Foolish Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian's definitely NOT happy to see Tim, and he's certainly NOT worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: strong language and some violence. We've sort of skipped ahead a little, but don't worry, I'll clear it up later! Also, if you hate italics, I'm sorry.

_Damian has never wanted anything so badly as he wants a glass of water at this moment. It’s had to be at least two days since he last had anything to drink. Between that and the strain to his vocal chords, it feels like his throat being rubbed raw by sandpaper. There’s not even enough moisture for more tears._

_He’s been struggling so hard against the restraints, but all that’s been accomplished is that his wrists are now bleeding freely. The morbid thought of “now they match everything else” crosses through his mind. Damian has to bite back a hoarse laugh at the thought, too tired to feel anything beyond despair._

_There’s a sound from somewhere above him, and now he’s choking back sobs as well. Damian’s not sure how much more he can take like this. If he’d been Robin, things would be different, but he’s not Robin, he’s just Damian Wayne. Damian Wayne is weak, soft, and childish. Robin would fight until his last breath, as would Damian Al Ghul. But_ Damian Wayne _wants his father, he’s terrified, and he’s powerless._

_He hears a scrapping sound from the direction of the door, like someone’s moving furniture. Then it stops. There’s a thudding sound and the doorknob rattles for several minutes. Damian hears a faint clicking, then the door opens slowly._

_“Oh man,_ Damian.”

 _And then the strap holding his head down is removed, and now he can see_ Tim _who looks strangely…concerned. Damian’s not sure whether this means something bad or not. His mind is hopping from thought to thought, with no real focus._

_As soon as his arms are free, he tries to sit up…and nearly falls off the table. Tim breaks his fall, but there’s not really that much of a difference between their weight, and Damian has momentum. Tim falls back onto his butt, Damian on top of him._

_“Jeez, man.” Tim groans. “Your feet are_ still pinned.”  
_Damian has a response, but his mouth isn’t cooperating and all that comes out is a sort of whimpering sound. Tim hefts him back up onto the table, muttering “hang on.” He gets the straps, watching Damian worriedly._

_“You okay?”_

_Damian nods, which would be a lot more convincing if he wasn’t shaking. Tim doesn’t look convinced. He’s taking the scene in—Damian, clad only in a pair of boxers, is covered in cuts and drying blood. His tan skin is unnaturally pale, body trembling violently._

_“Yeah, stupid question,” Tim sighs. “Here.”_

_He tugs off his jacket, and helps Damian get it on. It’s warm, and Damian’s thankful for that, even though his cuts sting from the movements. Tim considers for a moment, then leans forward and zips the jacket shut._

_“That’ll help a little. Look, we need to get out of here, okay? Can you walk?”_

_It’s pretty obvious after a few moments of struggling, that Damian_ can _walk, but only very unsteadily. Tim puts an arm around the smaller boy’s waist, and starts moving them both towards the door. But then, there’s an unexpected noise from the space beyond it._

 _“Oh,_ fuck. _” Tim hisses, looking around wildly._

_Damian feels his heart racing again, fear returning. Tim clearly has no plan, and the Cradle Robber is coming back._

_“…no!” he croaks out, terror helping get the word out. “No, nonono—“_

_Tim claps a hand over Damian’s mouth, silencing him. “Ssshhh, Baby Bat. You gotta be quiet, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here.”_

_He pulls Damian in tighter, and half drags the boy to the back of the room. In the dim light, Damian can see the table with different knives and similar things on it. Several of them are covered in blood—_ his _blood. Tim breathes in sharply, but shakes it off._

_“Get under the table.” He hisses, easing Damian down to the floor. “Get under it and be quiet.”_

_Damian does as he’s told, pulling his legs in and trying to shrink back into the wall. Tim nods at him, forcing a smile. Then he stands back up and scans the table, snatching up one of the instruments and whirling around as the door opens._

_The Cradle Robber pauses, one eyebrow raised. “Well. I didn’t expect to see_ you _here. This_ is _a pleasant surprise.”_

_“Well, the feeling’s not mutual.” Tim says coolly._

_“That’s a shame,” the man says, walking forward. “So much hostility. What did I ever do to you?”_

_“Back. Off.” Tim grits his teeth. “Shut up and get. The. Fuck. Back.”_

_“Or you’ll stab me?” The Cradle Robber is amused. “You don’t strike me as the type. What do you think, little one?” he asks, bending down slightly so that Damian’s in his line of sight. “Would he do it?”_

_“Don’t talk to him!” Tim snarls, stepping in front of Damian’s hiding place. “I’m not going to_ stab _you, I’m going to slice your fucking throat if you even_ look _at him again.”_

_He’s trying to buy time, looking for a way out. The man is large, but Tim is pretty sure he could take him, but there’s not much space. It’s too tight for error, and Damian’s not really in any condition to help, although Tim knows he’ll still try._

_The man seems to think that this hesitation is a sign of indecision, because he moves forward, trying to grab Tim’s arm. The only options Tim has at that moment are to dodge to the side…which would give the man full access to the table, or to keep his arm out of reach and take the man full on._

_It feels a lot like being hit with a small car (Tim would know) and the small of his back slams into the edge of the table. The man grabs for the knife in his hand, and he almost gets it until Tim slams his foot down on the man’s instep. It’s enough of a distraction for him to shove The Cradle Robber away and start on the offensive._

_“Damian!” Tim shouts, hoping that the boy will react quickly. “Door!”_

_Damian jumps in surprise, but catches Tim’s meaning. He struggles out from under the table and starts to make a run for the door. The room spins around him, and his feet keep getting tangled up._

_As soon as he’s done shouting, Tim’s focus goes back to the man on the ground. He’s tempted to use the knife, but he’s seen enough people react when faced with that sort of threat—they panic. So instead, he follows up with a shoulder to the man’s diaphragm, and a palm-strike to the neck. The guy goes down, lashing out and catching Tim’s knee with a foot. The blow doesn’t_ break _his knee, but it definitely hurts and he’s pretty sure that the joint’s been strained. Either way, it’s enough to drop him down too._

 _The man scrambles to his knees, slamming a fist into Tim’s jaw. He’s stunned, losing his grip on the knife. The Cradle Robber snatches the weapon from his limp hand and puts his knees and full weight down on the teen’s chest. Tim grunts, trying to buck the man off, feeling his ribs_ bend _under the pressure._

 _Damian had to stop against the table—to rest, he’d told himself, definitely_ not _because he’s_ worried _that Tim will lose. He watches as Tim goes down, frowning—with disgust,_ definitely not _concern. And then the monster has his brother pinned down, pressing the knife into Tim’s neck._

 _“_ Don’t.” _Damian says, not sure where the pleading tone came from. “Please?”_

 _It’s pathetic, he knows, but he_ really _doesn’t want Tim dead, definitely not like this. Besides, he justifies, who knows if Tim was smart enough to tell anybody where he went._

_The Cradle Robber looks bemused, eying Damian curiously. He doesn’t shift his weight at all, and the knife is steady against Tim’s skin. There’s a thin trickle of blood trailing down his neck from the tip of the knife._

_“….Very well.” He smirks. “If you insist.”_

_Then he slams his fist into Tim’s face once, twice, three times, until Tim goes limp. Damian shakes with exhaustion and fury and fear. Tim doesn’t move, and Damian can’t tell if he’s okay. The Cradle Robber stands up slowly, face inscrutable._

_“It would seem that we have a problem”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shorter chapter than usual, but I had good reasons (no, really). Anyway, I wanted to keep the ambiguity going a little longer and every time I've used italics thus far, it's been to indicate something happening that not all the characters are aware of. And I know that this seems disjointed, but I'll be explaining it all in the next chapter :D  
> I'm a little out of it, so if there are any glaring errors or confusing points, please, PLEASE let me know so I can fix it! We've got a few chapters left, so I hope that I haven't given too much away (any new theories as to who The Cradle Robber is?) or bored you all yet.


	7. Like Rats in a Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim needs to remember that people are never logical, Damian really wishes he had a smarter brother with him, and Dick and Jason are REALLY beginning to wonder how it's possible for someone so smart to be so stupid.

Tim doesn’t do things half-way, never has. Even as kid, he always inspected situations from every angle. Unfortunately, the knowledge of his own thoroughness has gotten him into trouble more than a few times. He gets caught up in the big picture, in the _logic,_ but forgets the other variables, namely other people. People, Tim tended to forget, were not at all predictable.

But he knew that other people forgot this as well. Why else would his family have managed to overlook the clues thus far? Now that he knows what to look for, it’s almost glaringly obvious as to _who_ they should be looking for.

He was still mulling over this as he entered a public library and got on a computer. Tim typed in his key phrases into the search engine, wondering how to let Dick and Jason (and probably Bruce) know what he’d found. He could, of course, wait for them to get back, but who knew how long that would take? They wouldn’t have their phones, and Tim knew exactly how angry they’d be if he hacked into the comm system.

The search pulls up results, and he skims through them, looking for the right information. Finally, he finds what he was looking for and prints it out. The address listed was within an hour’s worth of walking, so Tim decided to go there immediately. He was still slightly irritated that Bruce took his driver’s license away (it had been a really good forgery, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t driven _before)_ and  had told him to just wait for his sixteenth birthday—“it’s not that far away, Tim”—so now he has to either walk or use the bus.

Tim started walking, still mulling over his options. Finally, he decided to send a text, and since he left the files in Dick’s room with his notes, they should be able to figure it out. It’s not a risky move, he justified, because according to all the research, The Cradle Robber wouldn’t be home until late that evening. He’d have plenty of time to get in and out, hopefully with Damian. Assuming, of course, that the killer was a man of routine.

 

_“It would seem that we have a problem.” The man says, looming over Damian._

_He moves as though to grab Damian, who suddenly seems to remember how to move again. He snatches the man’s outstretched hand and_ twists, _snapping the wrist. The Cradle Robber bellows in pain, stumbling forward and past Damian from the momentum._

_Damian takes the opening and tries to make it out the door. There are stairs on the other side, steep and narrow. He nearly stumbles when he hits the bottom one, but regains his balance and starts charging up them. From behind, he can hear the man in pursuit, and the fear spurs him on. Damian has almost reached the last step and is reaching for the door at the top, when his leg is suddenly pulled out from under him. He falls hard and cracks his head on the edge of the stair. The world goes black._

 

Tim had gone in carefully—he’d checked to make sure that no one was home, and he’d gotten in through the back door by jimmying the lock, being careful to not leave a mark. Then he’d checked all the rooms, ensuring that they were indeed empty.

But then he’d been stumped—there was no way he was in the wrong place, but he couldn’t figure out where the man would be able to keep prisoners without giving it away. So he’d started snooping. It’d taken a while, but he finally found a box of pictures, hidden in the hollowed bottom of a record player. They were photos of all the victims thus far, tons of them, taken at different times. That had been a gruesome, rather disturbing discovery, but it meant he was on the right track, which was heartening.

He’d pocketed the one photo of Damian, and put the rest back carefully. The pictures had all had the same background, which gave him an idea of where to look. Tim had grinned slightly, pleased that he’d figured it out.

There was a door, not hidden, but well disguised in the back wall of the living room. The sofa was in front, and since he didn’t know how it opened, he’d had to move the furniture piece. It was heavy, but manageable, and it’d payed off, because the door had led downstairs to the basement. He hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he’d found it, so he just had to plan on leaving quickly when he got in.

 

 _It’s dark when Damian comes to, and for a moment, he’s not sure if he_ is _conscious, but then he shifts and his foot lands in something wet, and he knows that he’s definitely awake. There’s some sort of bag over his head, preventing him from making anything out. It’s claustrophobic, and he starts straining to get it off._

_His hands are tied behind his back, Damian finds, already feeling the strain on his shoulders from having his arms wrenched back. It complicates things, but he finally manages to catch the hood on something in the wall. He has to free fall onto the ground in order to get out from under the fabric, but it’s worth it._

_Damian looks around, assessing the space. It’s some sort of culvert, the kind used to keep overflow water from flooding the pipes of older sewer systems. In effect, it’s a vertical cement tube, sealed at the bottom, with a grate at the very top, and several openings in the sides near the top, where water drains from the main pipes. There_ is _a hatch in the wall a good ten feet up, but that’s sealed tight, and there’s no way Damian could get enough leverage or power to crack that seal. The culvert is about fifty feet deep, and the only other openings are at least forty feet up above him. It is, he realizes with a chill, the perfect place to drown someone without anyone knowing._

 _He looks around wildly, searching for another way out—drowning is possibly one of the ways he’d least like to die. There are no other ways in or out that he can see, but he_ does _find that Tim’s still with him, sort of slumped over on the floor. Damian is not sure whether he’s alive or not—he knows better than most that you_ can _kill someone with a well-placed or lucky blow to the head, but it would make little sense to bother taking a dead body along in this situation._

 _“Drake,” He hisses, then thinks that it’s stupid to bother staying quiet—no one can hear them anyway. “_ Drake!”

 _There’s no response, and Damian feels—it’s_ not _concern—annoyed by this. His only available ally had to go and get knocked out (his_ big brother _isn’t moving, might be dead, and it’s because of Damian), leaving him with no real course of action. He scowls, moving to check for a pulse. This, unfortunately, is when he discovers another problem—his arms aren’t just tied, they’re chained, secured to the cement wall behind him. There’s enough length for him to be able to turn and examine the set-up (metal ring embedded in the wall, no way to remove it), but it’s about three feet too short for him to reach Tim._

 _“Drake!” he’s angry with himself for panicking like a child, and at Tim for not answering, and at the whole damn universe and fate for making his life far more painful and awful than is fair. “_ Tim!”

 _He’s debating the possible effectiveness of kicking the water pooling on the floor at Tim. He’s also_ so _thirsty, and he’s had dirty water before…And then Tim groans softly and rolls over, looking thoroughly disoriented, but alive._

 _“You look awful.” Damian says, because now that he’s sure Tim’s_ not _dead, he’s just angry._

_“Feel…pre’y awful.” Tim slurs, wincing. “…you…okay?”_

_“_ Tt. _I’m fine. Please_ stop talking. _”_

 _Tim makes a sound that_ might _be a curse, but stops. He focuses at getting into a sitting position, which would be a lot easier if his head didn’t feel like it’s full of angry, very heavy bees. After a second, he gives up. The cold floor feels nice against his bruised face anyway._

_Damian has noticed that he no longer has Tim’s jacket, which is unfortunate, because he’s very cold now. A quick glance tells him that Tim, who’s now in the same situation clothing-wise, is shivering too, although he doubts the older boy really cares. Damian really wishes they had the jacket right now—it’d be great, not just for warmth, but for fashioning a make-shift lock-pick._

_“You_ did _tell Father where you were going, didn’t you?” Damian is worried about the fact that nobody’s shown up to rescue them. “Or Grayson? Or even Todd?”_

_“…sor’a.”_

_Damian wonders if it counts as murder if he’s going to die immediately afterwards._ Of course _Drake would be that foolish, he thinks bitterly. And now they’ll both pay for it._

 

Jason and Dick are entirely exhausted as they return to the Batcave. Alfred had sent them a message, ordering them back for some food and rest. Though neither of them would be the first to admit it, the order came as a sort of relief.

Dick groans pathetically, and flops down on one of the medical cots. He knows that he’ll get in trouble if he skips lunch, but he really doesn’t want to move again for at least a couple hours. His mind is still buzzing with worry and all the information they’ve been trying to make sense of.

For some reason, he keeps coming back to something Tim had said last night—the thing about locations. He can’t seem to put his finger on it, but there’s something familiar about the shape. Ten block sections, different areas, but always ten blocks. It’s slowly driving him crazy.

“Oh, my fucking…” Jason says from across the room. He’s staring at his phone, with a strange expression on his face (or maybe it’s a normal one, but Dick’s looking at him upside down), rapidly tapping the screen. “That little…”

He’s to agitated for full sentences, which Dick knows is a bad sign. Shoving the puzzle out of his head, he sits up, looking curiously at his younger brother.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, for the love of…” Jason shakes his head and tosses Dick’s phone to him. “Just… _look.”_

He looks. The message notification says he’s got three unread messages from Tim. He frowns, because that’s not right, Tim _knows_ they never take phones with them in the field, and he can just _talk_ to them, since he’s pretty much guaranteed to not miss them.

 

**[From: Smart(S)ass, Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.]**

**Think i got it. omw 2 make sure, DON’T TELL B.**

 

I’m going to kill him, Dick thinks, surprisingly calm. He scrolls down.

 

**[From: Smart(S)ass, Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.]**

**Left files in ur rm.. xplain everything l8r.**

**[From: Smart(S)ass, Wednesday, 12:12 p.m.]**

**Def right place. 40.826371, -73.995891 plz don’t b mad**

 

He looks at the clock icon in the corner of his screen—it’s nearly five o’clock now. Dick feels a great need to just sort of slam his head against something hard until he can’t think anymore. Also, a really strong drink would be nice.

“He’s not for real, right?” Jason complains, already running towards the stairs anyway. “’Please don’t be mad’? Really? I mean, he’s not _serious,_ right?”

He’s just bitching to blow off steam, because otherwise he’ll probably explode. Dick follows quickly, and they charge into his bedroom, both seething. The papers are on Dick’s bed, as promised. There’s a notepad on top of them, crammed with Tim’s messy scrawl.

Dick snatches it and starts to flip through it. He really wonders if Tim writes in a foreign language, because some of these words don’t make sense, and he’s not sure that all the letters are in English. Finally, he finds the page Tim must have been referring to, and he reads through it rapidly.

As soon as he looks up, Jason grabs it out of his hands and starts reading.

“Oh. _Oh.”_ Jason looks up. “That would make sense.”

Dick nods. He’s putting it all together in his head, and it _does_ make sense. He even gets why the location thing was so familiar, and that’s nice, because it means he’s really not losing it.

“Do we call B now, or when we’re on the way?” Jason tosses the pad down. “Those numbers gotta be the location, right? I mean, it _is_ Tim.”

“Yeah, they’re coordinates.” Dick starts towards the door, Jason hot on his heels. “I vote we call on the way—it’ll make him less pissed at _us.”_

They scramble back into the gear they’d ditch minutes before. Jason enters the numbers into the GPS system, and lo and behold, they are indeed coordinates. He grins just a little, because it’s just like Tim to put directions in longitude and latitude and expect them to recognize it right away.

He nods to Dick and they both climb into one of the Batmobiles (more space), and shoot out of the cave. The GPS starts to give directions, and Dick floors it, which Jason finds ironic— _he’s_ not allowed to drive, because Bruce is convinced he’ll crash, but _Dick_ is the one who always goes _at least_ twenty miles over the speed limit.

“We’ve already lost _four_ hours.” Dick says, because he can _feel_ the judgement. “And it’s Tim. So…”

Jason nods in understanding, “We just have to hope that we’re not too late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: those numbers are real coordinates! If you enter them into Google Maps then look at "restaurants near me", they'll pull up a place that I found very appropriate for the story :D  
> Not sure if my quality of writing is going down, but I hope not! As usual, if you have complaints or questions, let me know. We're nearly there! I swear that I won't keep you all in the dark about who The Cradle Robber is much longer. (Any guesses?) This'll be a 10 chapter fic, so we've got three to go!


	8. As the Rain Pours Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Jason rush to catch up, while Tim and Damian work to get out alive...and NOT kill each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I'm sorry it's so late, I've been sick as a dog and school started and just...life! Real life is insane, people. Anyway, hopefully, we'll be back to regular updates now. And it's time to find out who the Cradle Robber is! *dramatic drumroll*

They pull up to the house Tim had directed them to less than an hour after they left. Dick looks at the house and sighs, because of course it couldn’t be easy. The house is in a nice-enough part of Gotham, where there are bound to be neighbors home at this hour, and where any sort of commotion would not go unnoticed.

“Okay,” he says, opening the door and climbing out. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home, Jay.”

Jay nods in agreement. “Yeah. Go figure.”

They go inside slowly, even though it’s fairly obvious that there’s nobody there. A quick sweep confirms that, and then Jason finds the door.

“Hey!” Jason tugs the half-way concealed door open, calling softly, “Hey, Nightwing. I found something.”

He doesn’t wait for any acknowledgement, just pulls out his sidearm and goes down the stairs slowly, cautiously easing the bottom door open with a foot. The smell hits him hard, and he nearly chokes. The scent of blood is overpowering, and Jason swallows hard, before entering all the way.

“Oh, fuck…” Jason breathes, looking around.

There’s a surgical table, straps hanging over the side, the entire set up coated in blood. A table stands against the far wall, and surgical instruments litter the floor. There’s blood on them too, Jason notes, his heart sinking.

He hears Dick coming down the stairs, and he draws in a breath, trying to steady himself. Dick curses softly, taking in the scene.

“No one’s here,” Jason says dejectedly.

“Okay,” Dick says softly. “Okay, then let’s get out of here.”

They leave the dungeon a lot quicker than they’d entered, wanting to get as far from the brutal sight. Jason slams his fist into the wall as soon as the door is shut. Dick doesn’t argue, just runs his hands through his hair, looking tired. After a minute, he puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“I’ll call the cops. Just get ahold of yourself, okay? We know who did this, and we can find him. So get a grip, and let’s get going as soon as I’m done.”

Jason nods, taking a shuddery breath. He hears Dick on the comm, giving the officer on the other end directions. Still shaking, Jason rests his head against the wall until his older brother is done.

“C’mon.” Dick says, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go get that son-of-a-bitch.”

_It’s dark and cold in the circular space. Damian gave up on trying to get free and stop shivering a while ago now. He’s resting against the wall, wishing desperately for a blanket or something, anything to warm him up. It had started raining about thirty minutes ago, and the floor was already soaked, water starting to actively collect and pool._

_Tim keeps an eye on his younger brother while he tries to get his hands free—the boy’s been shaking like a leaf for a good hour now. Damian’s already tried the more skilled methods, so Tim figures that he can’t go wrong with trying the brute force approach. If he remembers correctly, most chains have a weak point where the links were welded shut. The seams can be broken with enough force._

_Granted, it’ll probably involve breaking his hand, or, at the very least, shredding his wrists with the friction. But if it means getting free, he’s willing to do that. He feels the links with his fingers, which is less than effective since they went numb a long time ago. But he finally locates the seam and starts twisting the chain._

_“What are you doing, Drake?”_

_Tim doesn’t bother to look up at Damian—he can picture the disapproving scowl just fine (he’s seen it plenty of times, after all)._

_“Getting these stupid chains off.”_

_Damian frowns, confused. He’s not certain what the older boy has planned, but he figures it’s probably something that is both ridiculously stupid and incredibly smart all at the same time. He starts to run through the list of ways to break a chains in his mind._

_Suddenly, Tim jerks forward, throwing his full weight against the chain. It catches for a second, and he bounces back from the momentum. Damian gapes, realizing exactly what he’s trying to do. But Tim jumps forward again before he can say anything._

_The chain snaps abruptly, and Tim face-plants on the cold, wet cement._

_“…Ow.”_

_Damian snorts. “tt. I’d think so.”_

_“’m free, so...shu’ up.” Tim grimaces a little, because his mouth hurts even more now. “Gimme a minu’.”_

_He shoves himself upright, completely focused on not actively cursing when he puts the weight down on his hands—he’s definitely either broken or dislocated his right wrist, and his left hand is throbbing (probably broken)._

_“Okay. Jus’ hang on.”_

_He doesn’t want to hurt Damian (the kid’s been through enough), but he definitely needs to get him free, because otherwise they won’t stand a chance at getting out. He focuses on the wall, hoping to pull the ring out. Metal doesn’t always settle well in cement, especially when there’s a constant moisture._

_“Um…le’ me jus’—“  
“Just break the damn thing!” Damian snaps—he doesn’t mean it, really, but he’s just so _ cold _and he is_ not _a child. “I can handle it.”_

 _Tim sighs, because he doesn’t want to fight, but he does_ not _want to do what Damian just commanded. He’s not even sure if it’d work—Damian weighs less than him (not_ much _less, but enough), so there’s a chance that there wouldn’t be sufficient force._

_“God, I’m an idio’.” He mutters, because it’s just occurred to him that they’ve got new options._

_Damian works hard to bite back the many retorts that came to mind as soon as the words were out of Tim’s mouth. He hopes that Tim appreciates it._

_“What?” he finally chokes out. “What is it?”_

_“I c’n jus’ pick i’.”_

_Now Damian feels like the stupid one, because Tim’s right—they’ve got something to work with now, because the other chain is broken. He doesn’t say so though, because he’s not about to give him the satisfaction._

_It takes a few minutes—it_ should _be less than that._ A lot _less, but Tim’s fingers are stiff and numb, and Damian can’t help shivering so violently that his arms shake. But_ finally, _the lock clicks softly, and Damian’s wrists are suddenly free of pressure._

_Tim leans back against the wall, trying to fight off the wave of nausea from forcing his damaged hand to work. Damian scrambles away from the wall, as though afraid that he’ll suddenly be chained again if he doesn’t. He crouches on the balls of his feet, rubbing his raw wrists gingerly._

_“Thanks.” He mutters, realizing that he probably should say something._

_The older boy shrugs. “’s cool. I mean, ‘s wha’ we do.”_

_Damian can read the underlying words—“that’s what brothers do”. But that’s an incredibly cliché, cheesy thing to say, and he’s very glad that Tim didn’t actually_ say _that, because it wouldn’t mean the same thing then. It’s just not who they are—they are fire and ice, two repelling forces, never meant to be at total peace with each other. That’s not something that’ll change, and those words would bring an awkwardness that they don’t need right now._

_“Right.” He agrees. “So what is your plan, exactly?”_

 

Officer David Patton gets out of his car, whistling cheerfully. Parked under an overpass and out of the rain, he settles against the hood, opening the brown paper bag he’s got in his hands. He’s just started in on his turkey sandwich when the car jolts beneath him and he nearly falls off. Turning around, he gapes up at Nightwing, who’s perched _on top of the car_ and grinning cheerfully.

“Hi!” The vigilante says, smile growing wider. “How’s it going, officer?”

“Good?” The police officer says, carefully putting his sandwich down inside the bag. “Um, I’m sorry, but is something wrong?”

“You could say that.” A voice comes from behind him.

Officer Patton whirls around and finds himself toe-to-toe with the Red Hood. The masked man looms over him, expression inscrutable beneath the red helmet. The officer steps back, bumping into the car.

Nightwing hops down from the car, sidling over to stand next to the taller vigilante. His grin is less friendly and more feral now. Red Hood merely crosses his arms across his chest, head cocked slightly.

“So,” Officer Patton breathes out slowly. “How can I, um, help you?”

“Well…” Nightwing drawls, as though considering the question. “You _could_ let me take a look inside your car here. Um, _specifically_ in the, ah, trunk.”

 The man starts to protest, but Red Hood cuts him off.

“It’s not really a request.” The masked man says, not so casually totting one of his guns in the reluctant cop’s direction.

The officer sighs. “Fine. It’s unlocked.”

The Red Hood stays at the front of the car with the cop, who’s returned to eating his lunch, watching the gun-wielding vigilante warily. Nightwing strolls along the car and pops the trunk opens. He disappears from their view for a minute or two, then pops back up, a much darker expression on his face. Wordlessly, he walks back to the other two men, something clutched in his hand.

Red Hood jerks his chin up slightly, as though asking the other man what’s up. Nightwing tosses the object to him. Red Hood catches it effortlessly, and recognizes it almost instantly—it’s a blue windbreaker, well-worn, and fraying at the cuffs. It had been Dick’s first, Jason had only really worn it a few times, but _Tim,_ who was a major clothing thief, wore it all the time now. The familiar jacket is ripped at one shoulder, and there is _blood_ smeared all over the fabric.

His grip tightens on the piece of clothing to the point that, were his knuckles visible, they’d be white. He joins Nightwing in glaring at the officer. Officer Patton continues to eat his lunch, watching them disinterestedly. He raises an eyebrow at them, chewing slowly.

“Wh--…” Red Hood inhales deeply, trying to keep his voice regulated. “ _Where are they?”_

The cop finishes chewing and swallows, a contemplative look on his face. “I’m sorry, but _who_ are we talking about?”

Before Red Hood can react, Nightwing interjects.

“You know _exactly_ who we’re talking about.”

There’s a dangerous tone to his voice, one that Jason has heard only a few times before. It’s always amused him that out of the entire family, nobody ever suspects that it’s not him, but _Dick_ who they should be scared of. Although Jason has a quick temper, Dick’s anger is probably more volatile, if harder to stir up. But from experience, Jason knows that there’s one surefire way to bring that rage to the surface—you just have to threaten the people Dick loves. He’d _kill_ for his loved ones, which, to Jason, means a lot more than it would if _he_ did that, because he didn’t have any real moral issues with killing those who deserved it (like this douche-bag in front of him now), but Dick believes in Bruce’s no-killing rule, and to cross that line, for him means a lot more than it does for Jason.

Still contemplating this, he puts a hand lightly on Nightwing’s forearm, squeezing slightly. The other man takes a deep, shuddery breath, but relaxes slightly. The cop continues to look bemused, watching them both with a small smirk dancing on his lips.

“Look,” Red Hood says, giving Nightwing time to calm down. “We’ve got all the evidence needed for _any_ jury to find you guilty of multiple kidnappings, child abuse, and pre-meditated homicide, and a whole lot of other things as well. There’s no way you’re getting out of this with anything _less_ than life in prison. And we both know how much people in jail just love child-killers.”

He pauses to let the statement sink in before continuing.

“Now, if it’s up to me, I’d just put a couple bullets in your skull right now and be done with it. We both know that it’d be a whole lot less ugly than what’s waiting for you. But it’s not up to me. Frankly, if you’re not gonna play nice, then I’m going to be _glad_ to send you to jail. You want mercy? I want to find those kids. _Alive._ ”

The man has the audacity to laugh out loud. “Do you _really_ think that those paltry threats are going to scare me?” He chuckles. “There _is no mercy._ Not for me. The only mercy in this world is the one I gave those children—an escape from the suffering that they’d have endured among the living.”

Before the Red Hood can respond, Nightwing lunges forward and slams the uniformed man down on the hood of the car.

“There is _nothing_ merciful about what you did!” he snarls, pinning the man down. “ _Nothing!”_

Despite the vigilante’s obvious rage, Patton looks unaffected.

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But in the end, we’ll never know. It’s not like you can _ask_ them, now is it?”

 

_There’s over a foot of water in the culvert now, and both boys can no longer feel their feet. Damian is thankful for that—the moments before one’s limbs go numb from cold are miserable, with fits of shaking, the aching of bones, and the burning of nerves trying to warm the muscles. Being numb is simply an inconvenience._

_Thus far, they’ve yet to come up with a plan to get out. Their best bet, as far as either can figure, is the hatch. Unfortunately, even with Damian standing on Tim’s shoulders, they’re just a little too short to get a good angle on the vault-style door. After a couple minutes of thinking, they tried to use the chains to rappel up to the door._

_“It’s sealed tight.” Damian states, holding tightly to the improvised grapnel. “We need a way to break the seal.”_

_Tim nods, lips pursed slightly. “Maybe if you jumped on the handle?”_

_Damian doesn’t even bother to try, just snorts derisively. “tt. All that would accomplish is me quite possibly falling back down.”_

_The older boy shrugs. “Well, it was worth thinking off. Do you think it’d make a difference if I tried?”_

_“No.”_

_“Okay.” Tim sighs and leans back against the cold, wet wall, trying to get a better look at the door. “If that’s out, then we’re kinda out of options. I mean, we_ could _just wait for this thing to fill up. If we can keep alive long enough, eventually, it’ll reach the top, and we could get ahold of the grate.”_

_“Or we’d die of hypothermia and drowning.”_

_“Or that.”_

_Damian scowls at the surprisingly relaxed tone, but decides against commenting. Instead, he eases himself slowly back down to the end of the chain, and drops to the floor. The water does little to break his fall, but he does end up thoroughly drenched._

_“If the wall were rougher, I could scale it.” He says, glaring at the cement._

_Tim snorts. “Well, how dare they design a sewer system with smooth walls.”  
“tt.”_

_They sit in silence, listening to the water trickling in._

_“It’s definitely flowing faster.” Tim comments after a moment._

_“Huh?” Damian frowns, trying to figure out what Tim is talking about—it’s as though he’s still carrying on a conversation and Damian’s just not privy to it._

_“The water. It’s coming in faster, so the rain must be getting heavier and the storm’s probably soaking the whole city.”_

_“Oh.” The younger boy listens, and he has to agree—the water is flowing in with increased speed. “Is that good?”_

_“Nah.”_

_Damian rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t he just kill us?”_

_Tim blinks, mulling the question over._

_“I don’t know.” He admits after thinking for a second. “Maybe he wanted to make sure we suffered, but didn’t have time to do it himself? I mean, he’s probably hoping to skip town, but that doesn’t leave a lot of time for, um…torture.” He pauses again, contemplating his answer. Then, he says “What’s it like, do you think?”_

_“What?”_

_“Dying.” Tim shrugs. “I mean, I’ve_ almost _died before, but I never did. And that always hurt a lot, right up ‘til the end.”_

_Shivering slightly at the query, Damian eyes the older boy curiously. “Does it matter?”_

_“Guess not. Just…I dunno. Everyone talks about it like it doesn’t hurt, but maybe that’s just the end part? When your body gives up and it’s all over if nobody intervenes?”_

_The younger boy doesn’t answer, and the air is filled with the sound of water pouring in. There’s a somber feel to it now, like a clock counting down._

_“’s always scary too.” Tim adds, breaking the silence. “But not, like,_ scary _scary. Just…like when you’re little and you do something risky for the first time and you don’t know how it’ll end up.”_

_“Suspenseful?” Damian suggests. He can recall many instances where he’s been close to death and he’s been around many people dying. But he doesn’t dwell on things like this often. “Or ominous, maybe?”_

_Tim nods thoughtfully. “Suspenseful sounds right.”_

_Damian stares up at the grate, so close, and yet, so far. “Drowning is an awful way to go.” He shudders at the thought. “Eventually, you lose consciousness, yes. But first, your lungs burst as you inhale water instead of oxygen. It’s painful and horrible. I suppose that the very end of it isn’t. I’ve even heard that it’s euphoric. But nothing else about it is.”_

_“Great. Thanks, Brat. I really wanted to know that while we’re stuck in this_ rising water _.”_

_“Well, you brought it up.”_

_“I did.” He grins sheepishly. “My bad. Hey, what d’you think happens after? Like, heaven, or whatever. Jason says that there’s nothing there, at least, nothing he remembers.”_

_Damian hums thoughtfully. “I doubt Todd would be the best source for such information.”_

_“Well, I don’t know anyone else who’s_ actually _died and come back. So…”_

 _“tt. True.” He frowns slightly. “I don’t want to think about it, if there’s something after or not. I’d much rather think about_ how _we’ll avoid finding out firsthand.”_

 _Tim rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the wall. “Yeah, well, I’ve still got nothing. We’re stuck until we figure out how to get that door open or find some way to levitate up to the grate. And I didn’t say we’re gonna_ die. _Not yet, anyway. Just gotta be patient.”_

_“For how long?”_

_“That…I don’t know.”_

 

It took them nearly ten minutes to decide what to do with Patton, mostly because of an argument over whether or not beating the shit out of the man would produce any results. Eventually, they determined that it would not (mainly because they’d already tried _before_ the argument) and they decided that they should probably call Bruce and try using some sort of alternate technique. Which was why they had trussed the man up ( _maybe_ a little _too_ tight, but who cares?) and then stuffed him in the trunk. Of course, after that, they were a little at a loss…and they still hadn’t called Bruce.

“Well, we _are_ supposed to be detectives.” Jason admitted, after spending a good ten seconds pouting (nobody could see it under the mask). “So…let’s detect?”

Dick snorted, but didn’t argue any more. “Sure. But let’s not call B until _after_ we try that. Because frankly, this whole thing will actually be ten times worse if we don’t have anything _besides_ that we caught the Cradle Robber.”

Jason nodded in agreement, because Bruce is already precariously balanced on the edge as it is. They start by looking through Patton’s personal belongings. The man had _clearly_ intended to skip town, and it seems like he had packed all of his things. After digging through several bags that contained everything from clothing to (weirdly) an autographed anthology of Shel Silverstein’s works. But there was nothing there to indicate where he’d been or what he’d done—clearly, he’d left all his incriminating things behind—it’s always easier to start over than it is to hide such things.

“Where the fuck is his phone?” Dick mutters after the last bag has been sorted through.

“Huh?” Jason looks up from the anthology (he’s just trying to be thorough, okay?). “Oh, I, uh…haven’t seen it.”

Dick rolls his eyes, because he knows that Jason had been totally reading the book. But it’s not worth commenting on, and it’s not like it’ll hurt anything if Jason is distracted—things really can’t go downhill much further. So he starts looking in the front seat, digging between seat cushions and poking around in the nooks and crannies of the car interior, until he _finally_ finds the phone.

“Got it!” He holds the phone up triumphantly. He’s very slightly annoyed that Jason’s only reaction is a distracted “uh-huh”. But Dick swallows the heated words he wants to say—there’s no point in fighting.

He settles into the driver’s seat and starts to look through the phone. There’s a passcode that takes _maybe_ ten seconds since Dick has badass hacking skills (better than Bruce, for sure) and then the phone is totally accessible. He flips through contacts and call records first—the guy has less of a social life than either Tim (who’s just generally easily distracted and never checks his phone) _or_ Damian (who, to be fair, is ten).

Then he scrolls through the search history—again, nothing really helpful, unless one counts the incredible amount of recipes this serial killer has saved to his Pinterest board. After playing with all the easiest options, he commits to the long haul and starts looking up the phone’s GPS history. Unfortunately, this guy is clearly smarter than the average bear—he didn’t take his phone when he was out _kidnapping and murdering kids._ Which was a big bummer, but Dick had kind of been expecting it—nothing about the Cradle Robber was easy, so why should his private life be any different.

After checking all of the phone’s data _and_ checking the car’s system, Dick’s done trying the electronic route.

“Damn!” He says, throwing the phone onto the passenger’s seat and climbing out.

Jason looks over, startled by the outburst. “Huh?”

“I didn’t find anything.” Dick’s jaw is clenched so tight that Jason’s a little worried about his teeth.

“Sorry.” Jason looks around, noting that the rain is still pouring down. Then, something dawns upon him. “Hey, do we have anyway to analyze soil?”

Dick nods slowly, looking a little confused. “…Yeah.”

“The tires…” Jason says, bending down to scrape off some sample.

“Oh. My. God.” Dick leans over to check it out too. “Jay, you are a _genius._ ”

Humming in agreement, Jason settles the sample into a baggie. Then he stands up and hands it to his older brother. Dick grins, feeling a little less pessimistic for the first time in _days._

 

 _Tim has remembered just how much he absolutely_ hates _being cold. It’s a constant battle at the best of times, but it’s been a while since he’s been chilled to the bone. Even if hypothermia is supposedly one of the nicer ways to die, he’s pretty sure he’d sooner take drowning._

_Drowning is now actually a real possibility—the water’s up to his waist, which puts it at the height of Damian’s ribs. They can’t sit down anymore, because they’d be submerged then. Tim’s pretty sure that that was kind of the point—the Cradle Robber is a sadist, and he’d want them to suffer as much as possible, even if he didn’t get to cause it directly this time._

_“I am_ never _going swimming again.” Tim announces after a minute. It’s not half as coherent as he’d hoped, since his teeth are chattering uncontrollably and his jaw still_ really _hurts. “Ever.”_

_“tt.” Damian looks confused—which is not a good thing. It means that he’s starting to feel the effects of being stuck in frigid water for over an hour. Tim’s a little (lot) worried about that. Also, the younger boy’s lips have a blueish tinge…his probably do too, now that he thinks about it._

_“Why are you not swimming?” Damian asks, frowning at him. “I fail to see the correlation.”_

_“Um…because this is pretty much like being out in the ocean? Or a shitty pool? And I’m really not a fan of involuntary total submersion?” Tim says, his tone either condescending or sarcastic, depending on who you asked._

_“That is…tt…the_ stupidest _reason I have_ ever _heard.”_

 _Tim has to bite his lip to keep from actually laughing at Damian’s ridiculously formal tone while saying “stupidest”. Dick’s clearly rubbing off on the kid—Damian using poor grammar is_ not _a naturally occurring thing. Unfortunately, since his teeth are chattering like castanets, Tim ends up_ actually _biting his lip. He grumbles a little, frowning when a probing finger comes back red from where his lip is now bleeding._

_Damian cracks up. It’s probably mostly from being tired and freezing, but the look of indignation on Tim’s face is too ridiculous. The older boy glares without much heat and sticks his tongue out at Damian, but the mood is momentarily lighter than was probably appropriate. Of course that won’t last._

 

“And you did _what_ with the suspect?” Bruce’s voice is cold and furious over the comm.

Jason rolls his eyes and Dick inhales very slowly through his nose before answering.

“We turned him over to Gordon,” he says, refraining from adding “just like I told you the first two times”.

“You didn’t think to call me?”

Dick sighs. “Bruce, we’re capable of interrogating a suspe--“

“I should have been called first!” He snaps angrily.

“Look, you were busy. We made a judgement call and we got the information.” Dick says, tamping down on his agitation—it won’t help if he starts fighting with Bruce now. “I know you’re worried about Damian--“

“ _That has nothing to do with this.”_

“It has _everything_ to do with this!” Jason interjects, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “You’re freaked out and scared for him and so are we. But you were busy and we had it! _And_ we got the intel.”

Before Bruce can respond, Dick chimes in with “we sent it to you before we called. They’re somewhere near the bay, over near the south side. We’re on our way there now.” And then he hangs up. They sit in silence for a moment as Dick takes the turns a little too fast, watching the rain hammering against the windshield.

Finally, Jason grimaces. “You didn’t even mention Tim.”

“No,” Dick sighs. “I didn’t. He’s already upset and irrational. When you add Tim to that mix, it’s never a great combination.”

“ _And?”_ Jason is exasperated.

“And we don’t need that. Look, if he knew, we’d see one of two responses. Either he’d panic, because two of his kids are missing, or, more likely, he’d shut down. You know, his whole ‘I don’t need anyone and I’m not concerned at all’ thing? It’s like that, only colder. It’s sort of a habit, I guess.”

Jason frowns, as Dick elaborates.

“When Tim started being Robin, Bruce wanted nothing to do with it. He was cold, distant, didn’t want to get attached. Only it’s _Tim,_ and he just kinda grows on you, so eventually, Bruce _did_ get attached, started to love him, even. But he didn’t entirely change the way he acted. I mean, he was a _lot_ kinder, more like he was with us. But he just never fully opened up, because, and I quote, Tim already had parents. I guess B didn’t want to overstep boundaries or something—he wasn’t Tim’s dad. And, um…I guess that he never entirely got out of that mentality.”

“That’s stupid.” Jason snorts. “I mean, for real?”

Dick shrugs, focusing more intently on the blurry road. “It’s Bruce.”

“Yeah, but still.” Jason mutters, looking out the window. He stops pushing it though, because the road is getting dicey and he’s not gonna be the reason Dick crashes the Batmobile. But he doesn’t drop the subject, because he _still_ doesn’t get how different Bruce is.

Before Jason died, Bruce had been a great dad. He’d been attentive, supportive, and Jason had known (even if neither of them had brought it up) that Bruce had loved him. Hell, even though he and Dick fought all the time, Jason was confident that Bruce had loved Dick too. But that’s not what he’d come back to. At first, he thought that he was just mistaking things—he’d been under the influence of the Lazarus Pit. But no, Bruce was different. _His_ Bruce would _never_ have send a kid home to an empty house for _months._ His Bruce never would have let him out alone for patrol, and _he’d_ been nearly sixteen when he’d died. Tim had been _fourteen._ Hell, his Bruce had made sure that he’d known how proud Bruce was, how much he was loved…even when Jason came back. He didn’t know if either Tim _or_ Damian knew that, even _now._

“He’s changed.”

Dick blinks, squinting at the road. “Huh?”

“Bruce.” Jason elaborates. “He’s changed a lot.”

“You just know got that?”

Jason shrugs, then realizes that Dick probably didn’t see the motion. “I dunno. I just…it’s still hard to get. I mean, it’s not like we’ve all been getting along that well for the past few years. I guess it takes time.”

“True.” Dick suddenly grins, and skids the car to a stop. “We’re here!”

“Great.” Jason scrambles for his helmet and gets out of the car. “Now we just need to find them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the killer is finally revealed! Now, before ya'll start questioning the validity of Officer Douchebag being the Cradle Robber, here's the deal. So, I got the inspiration from an arrest made last year in my hometown and another this year.  
> Last year, a teacher was arrested from a local highschool (he taught me and had my little sister in his class last year) for human trafficking. Turns out, he's got what might be the world's largest collection of digital child porn. Also, he helped kidnap and sell kids from around the state for YEARS.  
> And then this year, a bust was made on the same human trafficking ring. It turns out that one of the cops in town was a key player. He actually turned out to be the cop who'd worked my friend's case when her 16yr old daughter disappeared. They still haven't found her, but it looks like he may have had something to do with her going missing. He's still denying everything, and none of the other people busted have been cooperative. It's been two years now, and Saphi is still missing. Her 18th birthday was this March.  
> Police officers share many of the same traits as murderers (the whole "think like the criminal" thing), but the idea is that they're in control. And as an officer, you're instantly trusted, especially in middle-class white suburbia. So it's really the perfect place to hide if you want to get away with murder (literally).  
> Maybe the Cradle Robber has a backstory. Maybe he was abused as a child. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he's just a monster. We'll probably never know. That, unfortunately, is the way the world often is. Sometimes a monster is just a monster, and you don't get that explanation or closure.  
> That's my argument! Either you can hate it, or not, but I DID think this through. :D


	9. Sleep in Heavenly Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cradle Robber may be caught, but the boys are still missing, and time is running out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously love Christmas carols, and I don't get why we can't sing them all year long.

Bruce is surprised to find himself literally shaking as he speeds towards the docks. He’s suited up, but has yet to put on the cowl. And yet, he cannot place himself in the Batman mindset. Thoughts keep racing through his head, pounding with as much intensity as the pouring rain.

He _knows_ that Damian is a tough kid, an _amazing_ warrior. But he’s an eleven-year-old boy, _Bruce’s son,_ and he’s just…so _small._ He keeps telling himself that Damian is strong, he’ll be okay, but he’s _seen_ what that monster can do. And his baby is missing, no doubt suffering from whatever the Cradle Robber had done.

His comm goes off suddenly, startling him enough to cause him to swerve off the road for a second. Bruce swears fiercely, man-handling the car back onto the road and regaining control. Taking a deep breath, he turns the comm on.

“What?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice sounds shaky, and it almost stops Bruce’s heart. “I have some rather upsetting news.”

 

 _Damian’s not doing too well, Tim notes grimly. The water’s too deep to stand in anymore, and they’re currently perched_ on top _of the hatch handle. Well, Tim’s perched, sort of, one arm wedged into the handle, keeping him above the water, the other wrapped tightly around Damian, struggling to keep him as much out of the water as possible._

_The little boy is starting to succumb to a combination of his injuries, which are still oozing blood, and the cold. Tim’s pretty sure that there’s some correlation between body mass and size and the speed with which the cold starts to shut down the nervous system. Of course, this means that he’s probably not much better off—he already knows that it’s not a good thing that he can’t feel his mangled hands anymore._

_“Damian?” He shifts a little, nearly dunking the smaller boy. “Hey! Y-you n-need t’ s-stay awake.”_

_“I_ know.” _Damian squirms half-heartedly. “D-don’t…”_

 _He trails off, and Tim frowns with concern. It’s alarming how passive Damian is being—if he was feeling remotely well, then he’d_ at the very least _be threatening Tim with bodily harm. It’s kind of funny, he thinks, this is the sort of behavior that Alfred and Bruce and Dick have been lobbying for for the past two years. Ironically, it’s only taken them_ dying  _for this to happen._

 _Tim shivers abruptly, and then hoists Damian up higher—the water is rising so fast now, it’s already up to his neck again. There’s nowhere to go now though, no place for them to rest. He’ll have to tread water and hope that he can keep it up, can keep_ Damian _and_ himself _above the water until it rises enough to take them to the pipes, and, eventually, the grate at the top. Damian doesn’t even complain, barely moves. His head dips forward, dangerously close to the water. Tim feels like he’s lifting a ton of rocks when he hitches his younger brother back up again._

_“Just hang on,” Tim whispers hoarsely. “I gottcha.”_

 

Bruce skids the car to a stop, heart still pounding. He’s still trying to get his temper back under control. Ever since Alfred had gotten off the line with him, Bruce has been mulling over the situation, fuming.

Of course, he knows that it is entirely possible that Tim has just wandered off somewhere within the Manor—it’s not like he hadn’t managed to successfully disappear for hours just a few days before. But Bruce also knows Tim—of all his children, Tim is the most like him. And this is why he just _knows_ that it’s no longer just Damian who is in danger, it’s _both_ of his youngest children. Because if it were him, he’d have concocted a plan with no real regard either for his own limitation _or_ considering how his allies would react. If it were him, he’d have felt that he could handle it on his own. And Tim has done exactly that.

Bruce slams the door of his vehicle shut and storms into the downpour to join Dick and Jason. He’s gritting his teeth, trying to decide if he’s going to just lay into his oldest son or not. _Objectively,_ Bruce knows that Dick was just trying to avoid distracting him further. He’s sure that Dick must have felt that the information would only cause him to become even more emotionally upset and further clouding his focus. But, _irrationally,_ Bruce is furious that his son would keep this information from him.

Dick grimaces when he catches sight of Bruce’s expression, which the older man notes with some level of satisfaction. He decides to let his eldest stew, turning to address Jason.

“What progress have you made?”

Jason raises an eyebrow under the helmet. “Well…we’ve eliminated all the buildings in a two mile radius.”

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement, then finally turns to face Dick.

“Did Tim manage to leave any indication of where they might have been taken?”

Dick blinks slowly, before shaking his head. “No.”

Bruce frowns, but nods.

“Um…” Dick falters for a split second. “B, I didn’t mean—“

“I understand.” Bruce winces a little internally at how harsh he sounds, even to himself. “We will discuss this later.”

He turns away and stalks off swiftly, calling orders over his shoulder. “We’ll start sweeping the area, moving from the north side down. There are quite a few aqueducts and plenty of abandoned shipping containers around, so be sure to check them.”

The other two nod and leap into motion, each taking a different area. There’s no discussion as they strain to hear any sound that might indicate the missing boys. It’s not long before Bruce starts to feel the suspicion that they might be dead creeping into his mind like poison. He forces the thought out of his mind, knowing that if he allows himself to get distracted, if he takes too long, then he _will_ be looking for two dead children.

 

_The water rises slowly, oh so slowly. Yet it’s still far too fast for the boys. The constant downpour causes the water to slosh around, repeatedly dunking them. As the temperature drops, their bodies start to shut down from the cold._

_There’s nowhere left to stand or rest, and Tim is tired. His brain feels like it’s full of fog, the occasional (normally useless) thought shining through clearly. For instance, his mind tells him that the average_ adult _can last about thirty minutes totally submerged in water that’s forty degrees cold or less…and that popsicles will melt if it’s left for any real length of time in temperatures thirty-two degrees and above. Dimly, he’s aware that one of those facts is important, urgent, even. But his mind can’t quite seem to grasp which one it is._

 _He’s so tired now, and Damian feels like he weighs a ton, limp and still, dragging Tim down. His arm aches, and he really wants to switch arms, but he’s pretty sure that Damian will sink in the amount of time it takes. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure if Damian’s still breathing. Hell, he’s not really sure_ he’s _breathing now. It seems like he’s inhaling water instead of oxygen every time he takes a breath._

 _Struggling to kick his legs enough to keep them both afloat, Tim strains his neck to look up at the grate—it’s getting closer, so slowly that he really isn’t sure_ when _they started to get close. There’s still around twenty feet between them and the grate, and for a moment, Tim wishes that they’d kept the chains—he can totally throw that far. He even debates diving for them, but that would leave Damian to either drown or keep himself above water. Also, he’s not sure that he could get down far enough anymore._

 

Bruce is beginning to feel a sense of urgency flooding his mind, and his searching is becoming more frantic. The rain keeps coming down, and any evidence there may have been is long gone by now. He occasionally checks in with Dick and Jason, who are having no more luck than he is.

Running through the rain, he looks in container after container, each one empty. His mind keeps listing facts, going over the many physical vulnerabilities of a child under the age of eighteen, reminding him of just how fragile his children truly are.

A chime sounds in his ear, indicating a new comm line. He turns it on, growling "Speak."

"I really _am_ sorry," Dick's voice is sincere, if a little breathless. "For not telling you about Tim. I just didn't want you to be--"

"In the future, I'd prefer you let me make my own decisions." Bruce snaps, directing all his frustration at his eldest. "I am an adult. And, further more,  _I_ am his  _father_ and have a right to know when he is in danger,  _even if_ it could compromise my actions. You do  _not_ get to make decisions like that."

"Right." Dick snorts derisively. "Because you've _never_ been compromised by emotion. Unless, of course, we count almost _all_ of your interactions with the Joker, your actions during the Crisis, which, by the way? That was a completely selfish thing to do. Oh, and pretty much everything you did when Tim became Robin."

Bruce practically  _snarls._ " _None of that_ has  _any_ bearing in this instance. And you have no right to judge my actions!"

"Yeah, well someone should!"

Before anything more can be said, Jason cuts in over the main line, clearly oblivious to the fact that his counterparts have been arguing.

“Hey, I think I’ve got something!” Jason’s voice sounds slightly optimistic. “Yeah, I’ve got something!”

 

_It's getting hard to think. He can't remember if it's been days or minutes since the water started pouring in. And how long has it been since he last felt his hands?_

_The water sloshes and keeps getting in his mouth. His chest aches, maybe from the exertion or the water, he can't tell really. It feels a lot like the last time he caught pneumonia, the same short-of-breath, suffocating feeling he'd had then. Is it possible to get pneumonia from floating in freezing water? Is that one of those things that the spleen is supposed to take care of? Cuz if it is, he's probably screwed._

_Damian isn't moving and he's scared that the little boy might be dead. But dead people don't float like living ones, right? So he gets Damian onto his back, carefully keeping his head out of the water. The boy floats well enough, head buoyed up against Tim's shoulder. It's a relief to his arm in some respects--he hasn't moved it out of that position since Damian stopped swimming. But he can't stop moving while treading water, and his shoulders ache._

_It's been a while since he's felt this tired and_ sore.  _He's not felt this sore in years, not really. Could they have gotten caught in some sort of time-travel thing? He feels pathetic enough, lost and scared enough, helpless enough for it to be some time in the past._

 _That's not right though, he knows it's not. That's not what's happening, right? Damian is still here, he's still eleven. He wouldn't be eleven if they'd gone back in time, if_  Tim _has aged backwards._

_He pulls Damian in against him again, holding on hard enough to feel the boy against him. It's anchoring him now, this reminder that he's not lost in time. He's never been this thankful to have his little brother around before. But this time, he's pretty sure that he'd be lost without Damian with him now._

 

They join Jason maybe two minutes after he called in. He’s standing over a manhole cover, looking at it intently.

“It’s been moved recently.” He declares as soon as they’re both there. “I’d bet that it was _him.”_

He indicates the scrapes along the rim of the cover. Even in the rain, the freshly exposed metal is shiny and, when you know where to look for it, obvious. Bruce runs his finger along one of the serrations, feeling something loosen slightly in his chest.

“I’d agree.”

Jason nods. “Great. I also got a map of the system under us, since it’s sorta flooded and all.”

Bruce nods. “Good work,” then into the comm, “Pull up the feed please.”

He doesn't acknowledge the glare Dick is shooting him, pushing the argument aside for the time being. Ironically, this entire drama between them has distracted him a whole lot more than learning that Tim did something irresponsible had. He knows that it's not over, either--he and Dick never  _truly_ stop fighting, they just maintain a truce most of the time. But this situation has definitely ended the ceasefire, despite all logic saying that now is  _definitely not_ the time for them to be at odds, even  _if_ it's totally justifiable, which it is.

The display lights up, showing him the network of tunnels, aqueducts, and overflow pipes. It takes less than a second for him to decide on his goal. Jason and Dick are clearly on the same page, and the three of them take off, running quickly in the direction indicated by the map.

 

_There are voices coming from somewhere overhead. Or maybe it’s just the rain, messing with his head. It’s hard to think, harder to move. If he just stops for maybe a moment…_

_But no, he can’t do that, because…because…oh, because he’s gotta keep_ Damian from drowning. _That’s why. He’s gotta keep him alive, because if he can just keep him…keep him alive until Batman shows up…_

_There’s a bright light now, shining into his eyes so that all he can see is white. He doesn’t actually think he’s dying, cuz he’s pretty sure that there’s no going into the light scenario at the end of it all._

_He’s definitely not dead, because he can sort of hear sounds from above—metal scraping, voices shouting. But there’s also the rush of water…_ always _the rushing of water. Something drops into the water near him, sending a wave that sets him to coughing as it splashes his face._

 _And now something…no,_ someone _is trying to pull Damian out of his arms. He tries to kick out, tightening his grip. He can’t let go, can’t let Damian get hurt anymore._

_There’s a voice in his ear, telling him that it’s okay now, that he should let go. He shakes his head, trying to get away, but his legs aren’t listening now. But there’s a strong grip on his arm, holding him up, prying his arms open and away._

_He tries to protest, struggling, and the voice is in his ear again…and, oh, it’s_ Bruce _talking, trying to calm him down, telling him that it’s alright, that he needs to calm down. So he stops, finally letting his limbs still, believing that the struggle is truly over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter!!!! So yeah, it's a shorter chapter. I just felt like it met my expectations for that bit, so sorry about that. But the last chapter will be a doozy! I hope the ending of this one made sense.  
> Okay, so I had to Google my little trivia facts up there, but it was totally for a justifiable cause! See, my friend is a type 2 diabetic, and he had to have an injection before eating and he was super hungry and didn't wanna wait the required 15 minutes. So we all started telling him random facts to distract him from the food. And now we know how cold popsicles need to be, which could totally be important later on in life.


	10. Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight to survive is over, but the battle to stay alive has only begun.

_Beep…beep…beep…_

“…-rate is too fast.”

_Beep…beep…beep…_

“…Need to get him warm.”

“He’s not moving! I need…”

_Beep...beep…_

“C’mon kiddo, hang in there!”

“Grab me the…”

_Beepbeepbeep_

“Damian!”

_Beepbeepbeepbeep_

_Beep…_

_Beep…………beep…_

_……beep…_

………

 

It’s blessedly warm when Tim opens his eyes. His lungs feel like they’re full of cement, his limbs burn like they’re on fire, even his head aches. He tries to take in a deep breath, but chokes, his lungs refusing to expand, and then he’s choking on air, body struggling to cough and lungs refusing to cooperate.

“Shit!” Dick says from somewhere to the left— _how long has he been there?_ “Hey, hey you’re okay. It’s okay, everything’s alright now. Just relax, Timmy. Can you do that? Relax.”

Tim nods frantically, because he’s _fine,_ he just can’t seem to inhale properly. Dick keeps talking, presumably trying to help somehow. And maybe it does, because his lungs stop seizing after a few seconds, and he can get in some oxygen.

“’m okay.” He wheezes as soon as possible, because Dick’s making that face that says he’s freaked out but doesn’t want Tim to know. “Re—“ he breaks off to cough again. “ _Really.”_

Dick looks skeptical, but doesn’t reply, handing him a cup of water. “Drink?”

Tim takes it gratefully and watches his older brother carefully while he drinks. Dick’s face looks drawn and tired, like he hasn’t slept in days. Frankly, he looks like crap. _He normally looks like that when he and Bruce_ really _fight…or when someone dies…_

“Where’s Damian?” He demands, panicking. “Did you…you guys got him, right?  _Dick?”_

“Dude, seriously. _Relax.”_ Dick holds his hands up defensively. “He’s…he’ll…” He sighs. “He’ll be fine, okay? I…he’ll be fine.”

 _He’s lying._ Tim frowns slightly, because he can tell when Dick’s lying, he can _always_ tell. But he keeps this to himself.

“Am I in trouble?”

Dick sighs and reaches over to brush the bangs out of Tim’s eyes. “Probably. You scared us, Tim. And you know how Bruce can be. So, yeah, probably.”

 _Okay, they definitely fought._ “’m sorry.”

“You need to remember that you’re still a part of this family, okay? _We love you,_ and when you do things like that…” Dick sighs again. “Just…don’t scare us like that again.”

Tim nods, feeling a little cowed, but still trying to decipher exactly what Dick’s upset about (besides him).

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” He asks, more as a distraction than anything.

“Yeah. Congrats, Tim. You caught pneumonia. Again.”

Tim grins half-heartedly. “That darn missing spleen, huh?”

Dick frowns, because it’s not funny. At that moment, Jason comes wandering into the room. He raises an eyebrow, seeing the relieved look Dick is giving him.

“What’d I miss?”

“My shitty sense of humor.” Tim says deadpan.

“Ah, and he lives.” Jason says with mock cheerfulness.

His older brother shakes his head slightly, then stands up. “You wanna stay here with him for me? I’m gonna go tell Alfred.”

Jason nods, confused. As soon as Dick leaves, he glares at Tim. “What. The. Hell?”

“My missing spleen is not funny, apparently.”

“Yeah…well neither are my ‘dead’ jokes. You totally should have known better.”

Tim shrugs. “Sorry. How’s Damian? Dick won’t tell me.”

Jason groans, because _of course_ he’d be stuck in the middle of that particular mess.

“You can tell me, or I can go find out.” Tim declares, trying to get out of bed. He makes it to the edge before he almost falls over. Jason jerks him back onto the bed, growling “idiot”, under his breath.

“He’s okay. Unconscious, but okay. His body started to shut down from the cold—yours too. But we got him stabilized, so now we’re just waiting for him to wake up. Bruce’s with him now.”

Tim looks skeptical. “He’s _really_ okay?”

“Well…if— _when_ he wakes up, he will be. Ice water baths are not recommended for kids in general, in case you were wondering _. You_ were out for at least a full day.”

Jason hangs around for a good four or five hours, “keeping Tim company”, which really means “keeping Tim in bed”. Finally, he announces that he’s going to go grab dinner and “you should get some sleep, Timbo. You look like crap.”

Tim tries, but he can’t seem to get comfortable. First, every time he starts to fall asleep, he starts to dream that he’s drowning, and then he wakes up gasping and coughing. Eventually, he gives up. He can’t stop worrying about Damian.

So, logically, he decides that he needs to go check on the boy himself. He heaves himself up out of bed and wobbles for a moment. His lungs ache, but he keeps from coughing. Tim pauses to look around, before trekking down the hall.

Damian’s room is still technically a crime-scene, so he’s been settled into a guest room. Bruce wishes idly for a more comfortable chair—his back aches like crazy. Sighing, he leans forward and gently brushes his youngest son’s hair back from his flushed face. Damian doesn’t stir, and Bruce feels that nagging sense of fear in the back of his mind— _what if he doesn’t wake up?_

 _He_ will _wake up,_ Bruce tells himself firmly. He sighs and leans back into his seat. He wonders idly if any of his boys are awake at this hour— _probably not._

The sound of someone padding down the hallway immediately contradicts this conclusion. Bruce turns around to see Tim lingering in the doorway, chest heaving from exertion.

“Tim?” Bruce frowns with concern, getting up and walking over. “Are you alright?”

The boy nods, still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah. I just…wanted to see if, um, Damian w-was okay?”

Bruce can’t help but smile slightly at the way his son shifts embarrassedly when he’s done talking. He places his hand against the boy’s forehead, before sighing in relief.

“The fever’s gone down some.”

“Antibiotics are pretty awesome.” Tim grins for a moment.

The man can’t keep from rolling his eyes at that statement. “Uh-huh. Okay then, champ, I take it you’re not going back to bed without a fight?”

Tim nods sheepishly.

“Okay then. Come on.” He puts an arm around the boy’s skinny shoulders. “We’ll have to share the armchair.”

They get settled into the chair, Tim somehow managing to squeeze in between Bruce and the arm of the chair. He leans against Bruce, staring over at the bed with some concern. He’s so still and quiet that Bruce thinks he might have fallen asleep.

“Hey, B?”

Bruce almost jumps. “Yes?”

Tim sighs and tilts his head up slightly to look directly at Bruce. “I’m sorry for scaring everyone. But I’m _not_ sorry for what I did.”

It’s almost exactly what Bruce would have said himself, and it’s hard to come up with an appropriate response. Finally, he settles on “I know, Tim.”

He feels the boy nod and then relax again. After a few minutes, Tim _is_ asleep. Bruce smiles fondly, shifting so that Tim’s no longer falling off over the side of the chair. He looks over to check on Damian, pleased to note that the boy looks much more relaxed and less flushed. He sighs and rests his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes. He listens to the heart monitor’s steady beeping, feeling Tim’s labored breathing next to him, finally able to relax knowing that his children are all safe.

 

Damian wakes with a jolt, mind reeling from the dream he’d been lost in. He breathes in and out for a moment, trying to sort out what was real and what was a remnant of his imagination. Turning his head, he can make out his father, sleeping in the armchair. He’s surprised to see Drake there too, resting against Father, pale and bandaged and definitely alive. Damian is surprised to be relieved by that, but he chalks it up to stress and the dream he’d been having. Sighing, he lays his head back on the pillow, relaxing his sore body. He listens to the sound of his family members’ breathing and slowly drifts back off into a dreamless slumber.

 

It’s several days before Damian is allowed downstairs, and even then, it’s only after much begging and threatening. Finally, he convinces _Jason_ of all people to help him get out of bed and down to the dining room. The rest of the family is there, eating breakfast when they arrive.

Jason gives Bruce a cheerful smile in response to the disapproving frown.

“I coerced him into assisting me, Father.” Damian says, hoping to prevent an argument.

“Fine.” Bruce says dejectedly. “Just…sit down, please, Damian.”

The boy does as commanded, taking the closest empty chair, which happens to be next to Tim. The older boy eyes him for a second, then returns to jabbing at his oatmeal half-heartedly. Alfred sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of Damian without comment, although he does give the boy a small smile.

Damian digs into the meal with some relish—it’s been _days_ since he had solid food to eat. After a few mouthfuls, he slows, paying more attention to the atmosphere of the room. Father and Grayson are sitting as far from each other as they can without being noticeable, avoiding eye contact determinedly. Todd is trying to lighten the mood, cheerfully commenting on the food, the weather, and anything else he can think of. Drake seems to be avoiding attention, probably because he’s not eating and doesn’t want a lecture.

Finally, he has enough and slams his hands on the table. Everyone jumps and stares at him.

“Whatever you’re fighting over, I highly doubt it’s worth it at this point!” He says, glaring pointedly at Grayson and then at Father. “Just stop it!”

He pauses, sees that Father is about to argue, and decides to play the trauma card. “Please. I just want to be with my family after all this!”

Both men mutter sheepish apologies, and the mood relaxes tangibly. Damian is pleased that they didn’t notice how out of character that statement had been, although Todd is staring at him, mouth slightly agape. Drake is snickering quietly into his oatmeal, clearly well aware of what he did.

The rest of breakfast is relaxed, pleasant almost. Afterward, Grayson suggests a movie, and everyone else agrees, albeit reluctantly. Even Father agrees, although he brings along some paperwork. Drake is still poking at his cereal when everyone else has left for the living room. Damian pauses in the doorway, scrutinizing the older boy for a minute.

“Drake?”

The boy sighs and cocks his head. “Yeah?”

“You _are_ coming, right?”

“Yes.” He shrugs, pushing the bowl away a few inches. “I figured if I waited ‘til they left, I could dump this without a lecture.”

Damian frowns. “You should eat more.”

Drake smirks. “Thanks for the advice. The antibiotics make me nauseous. Besides, I eat plenty.”

“No, you _don’t.”_

“And this matters…why?”

“Because,” Damian says as though talking to a particularly slow child. “It’s only fair that I be concerned for your well-being, considering you _did_ attempt to help me.”

“Um… _excuse me?”_ The older boy glares at him incredulously. “’Attempt’? I freaking saved your life!”

“Perhaps.” Damian shrugs. “But no matter. What _is_ important is the fact that we make quite the formidable theme. Even _Father_ has a difficult time dissuading us. And since this alliance is quite beneficial, I am therefore interested in keeping it intact.”

Tim grins. “Well, if you put it that way.” He gets up and walks towards the living room, gently bumping Damian’s shoulder on the way. “Come on. We can probably get them to _not_ put on another one of those _stupid_ cartoons!”

They exit the kitchen together, trying to strategize the best way of convincing their brothers that it is in their best interest to _not_ force the two into watching _another_ Disney movie. Although they’re unaware, both Dick and Jason will be more than willing to let them have their way, if not just because they’re happy the boys are safe, then definitely because it’s a wonderful thing for them to see—Tim and Damian getting along for a reason that isn’t work related. They’ve already won the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, it's the end!!! :D Thanks so much for sticking with me and being so supportive, especially when you guys gave great suggestions and theories. That was awesome!  
> I honestly don't know how I feel about this ending. But it made me surprisingly happy, especially the VERY end. Anyway, this was probably the hardest chapter I have ever written.  
> We will never know what happened to the Cradle Robber, because that's just how life is most of the time. Sorry. But feel free to imagine all the wonderfully horrible things that happen to men like him in prison. That'll make it better!

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back! Since I've already pretty much guaranteed myself a permanent spot in Hell for all eternity, I figured that nothing I do will really matter. And thus, a horrible story was born. I've got a really, um, UNIQUE family, and they helpfully supplied me with all sorts of sick ideas for this, including the M.O. for this serial killer. Actually, they gave me two REALLY good ones, so I'll probably have to write another story after this.  
> I hope you guys enjoy this story. I was so pumped to read all the feedback for the last one! Seriously, a big part of how I finish things is that you guys keep me going with all the comments. Even when I'm feeling like crap, reading your comments is what keeps me going. :)


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